We were sat inside the van. Duane in the middle, right against the gear-box. We could hear the prostitutes high-heels' click-clacking against the pavement. Adults in claret and blue, shell suits and denim jackets would appear, then disappear again, from in between the terraced houses and in the entrance to the pub. The Coat of Arms. The doors were locked. I had my Umbros on. The radio wasn't on the sound of the darkness, with all the space the white van took up on the side of the cerb we felt like shadows.

We'd come from Keith's homecoming party. I'd stood out there with him brushing against his leather jacket and listening to the sound of the can of Carling drain itself into his mouth. He pointed out Orion's belt, Sagittarious and something like the frying pan - each sar dotted on to the night sky.

Jenny said she was only going into the Coat of Arms to say hello to Dave. The doors had been locked and we still had our seatbelts on. We were together and had a can between us. 5 minutes past and we settled into our shadow on the road. Cars went by. More figures would appear before us in front of the huge windshield, without any indication there were 4 eyes looking back at them; 6 if you included the doubling of Duane's eyes caused by the illusion produced from thick lenses.

We thought nobody could see us. As if gliding through space we felt as safe as any vehicle suspended in the night sky, resting on the tarmac road. We could only figure out so much in the side-mirrors and we didn't have our eye on them the whole time. Conversations touched on what had been exchanged at Keith's. Why the lack of carpet on the staircase? How old was Duane's nan anyway? Did you have a drag of Lisa's Silk Cut? How many boxing videos did Gray have? 

I'd correctly guessed Dave's name testament not to my transcendent powers - whichI inferred I happened to have judging by everyone's stark amazement, as if I were clairvoyant -but the fact that most people with skin-heads, especially those winning championships in indoor rowing were called Dave. Football managers of our local teams were often called Phil or Trevor, and most of the men who weren't Dad's friends were called Kevin.

The door on Duane's side swung open.

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