A/N: This chapter is the reason last chapter seemed to be quite filler-ish. If I added it to this one you’d have a triple length chapter and I didn’t want to do that in case you got used to it!

The song is There is a Light That Never Goes Out by The Smiths, and as it is partially responsible for all the driving scenes I have written/ will write, I thought I’d better include it.

Also (because it amuses me) I’m thinking about doing a glossary for all the words you non-UK people don’t understand. So if you find one, let me know and I shall compile a list!

Anyway… enjoy!

Like he said he would, Mr Roberts – Mike - makes me toast and a mug of coffee. I spend the journey trying not to cover his car in jam, or the legs of my trousers in scalding liquid as I grip the mug between my knees, and a sticky slice in each hand. He picked my favourite mug without me telling him which one it is, in what I can only assume is an outstanding display of coincidence, unless I choose to believe he pays that much attention to my beverage consuming habits. Yeah. I don’t want to think too hard about that. Awkwardness is one thing, but I don’t think the man’s obsessed. If he is, he’s being discrete about it anyway. I kind of wish he wouldn’t be. I mean – it’s not like I want to go out with the man (he’s a teacher), but some mutual flirting would be a very nice distraction from the saliva-swapping antics of my ex-best mate and my ex-crush.

As we pull out onto the main road and I crunch through the first bit of toast, he switches on the radio again. Out of the corner of my eye I see a smile sweep onto his face and his lips mark out the shape of the guitar chords strumming over the airwaves, head bobbing slightly. For a bit I’m so caught up with watching him act like the complete dork that only I seem to be aware he is, that I don’t even listen to the lyrics of the song. It’s not something I’ve heard before – some Indie bollocks - a bit peppy sounding, the lead singer with a softly velvet voice that hints at eighties camp. He seems a bit obsessed with the eighties if you ask me. I mean, he looks early-twenties or something, so he was only little when they were happening. Mind you, I guess the nineties were a bit of a wash-out what with the birth of boy bands and the abominations that followed from there. The song on the radio sounds innocuous, enough but then I hear a few words of the chorus and my mouth drops open.

“This is sick. You can’t drive to this.”

Mike snorts, his laugh turning into silent shakes of his body so I’m a bit worried about him running us off the road as the singer continues.

And if a double-decker bus crashes into us,
To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die.

And if a ten ton truck, kills the both of us,
To die by your side,
Well, the pleasure, the privilege is mine.

My eyes widen in horror as he looks over at me. The man just shakes his head. “It’s a good song.”

“Not to drive to. Keep your eyes on the road! Fudging hell!”

Toast is forgotten, slipped onto the dashboard. My hands run through my still damp hair that I had to dunk under the tap to try to flatten out the dreaded cow-lick, worried I’ve got into the car with Mr McMorbid behind the wheel.

Mike keeps laughing – a good long rumbling thing that has me wanting to smile too.

“I’m not using it for inspiration, Nick.”

I slump against the door pretending like I don’t feel a bit of a moron. I return to watching him again while I slurp my coffee and try to maintain his opinion of me as a moody teenager, but the grin won’t quite keep off my face. “You bloody better not be.”

Take me out, tonight
Oh take me anywhere, I don’t care
I don’t care, I don’t ca-are.

Driving in your car, I never, never want to go home,
Because I haven’t got one.

Sappily, I start thinking that maybe – apart from the death bits - I want him to do just that – take me out and not take me home again, instead of driving us both to school like he’s supposed to. But that’s just me being a horny teenager because I really do like those glasses of his quite a bit, actually. You know, if I’m being dead honest.

He turns into the staff car park pausing to let me out before he finds a space. I snatch up my toast and my bag, leaving the mug on the floor by the passenger seat and scrabble with his dodgy door handle.

I pause before slamming it closed and offer a halting, “Thanks,” as I stand there holding the door open like an utter div while he runs the engine. “I’ll – uh, see you later. Mike.” I frown at myself, because I’m not an idiot – this is school. I can’t be calling him that at school. He gives me a small wave, lifting a hand off the wheel and I slam the door closed. I duck into the sixth form block quickly, resisting the strange urge to watch him park, and get in ten minutes before the end of assembly – enough time to cram books in my bag for the first three lessons, before I’m supposed to be anywhere. Mr Roberts obviously isn’t in charge of a form group otherwise he’d have to be in a lot earlier than this.

The rest of the day goes on fairly normally. I try to avoid talking to Lucy and start training myself to see empty space where Angel-Boy fills up air. It’s harder than you might think, especially once it’s realised that my eyes have adapted over a long period of time to seeking him out when boredom levels reach a critical peak (as this is school, it happens a fair bit), but mostly I managed it. Dougie was quite distracting ‘cause he’s nervous about his not-exactly-date to watch the rugby. He’s coerced me and Dobbs into agreeing to mysteriously show up at the same pub at an appointed time so he can pretend like he was only ever being friendly if the intended victim is not receptive to Doug’s charms. Massive sports fan that I am, you can imagine I’m thrilled by the sacrifice of my evening.

Think what you like, but I’ve been looking forward to Mr Roberts’ lesson all day, not least because it’s the last thing before we go home. I’d considered stuffing my bus pass in the back of my locker and claiming I had to cry off Doug’s date duty because unless I got a lift, I had no way of getting home (not to convince Mike, but so Doug wouldn’t want to kill me). But that felt well-low, especially given that I hadn’t even brought up the subject of my late night phone call yet. I guess I’m hoping that this rugby guy will be bigger and gayer than Charles and then I can claim the whole mess is out of my hands and they’ll have to fight it out between them, but knowing Dougie’s track record, that’s unlikely to happen.

Anyway – here I am, standing here in school PE kit and my trainers that are too white because my Mum got hold of them and put them through the wash right after I’d got them to the perfect level of beaten up, so now I look like a failed chav, waiting for Mr Roberts with the rest of my class, fazing Doug’s rambling out of my notice because I’ve got this sort of tight jumping feeling in my stomach that I’d rather concentrate on. I’m staring at the sports hall doors, waiting for him to come through them, ‘cause even though we haven’t talked all that much I know he’ll catch it when I roll my eyes behind Doug’s back. I know he’ll smirk and offer me a shrug, like hey, you were the one who said he was great. And I know it’ll make me want to laugh, and that jump in my stomach will skip up to my throat. So, really, I’m just waiting for a cheap thrill and don’t I feel fantastic about it?

The door opens, and like some pathetic groupie, I suck a breath in. I cannot believe I’ve been waiting for this all day. First thing I do when I get home is finding something decent to wank over that has absolutely fudging nothing to do with teachers. Obviously I’m gagging for it. The door opens, and in walks Miss Hooper, announcing she’s going to be covering the lesson. My reaction is comically the exact opposite of the majority of people in the room. My all male PE class sucks in a unified breath, straightens and puffs out chests, while I sigh and slump down in annoyance. Doug clicks his tongue in disappointment.

“Damn. I was looking forward to an easy lesson.”

Since that first horrific Bleep Test, Mike’s successfully proven that he’s a bit of a shit PE teacher. If my snooping proves me right, he’s probably not a PE teacher at all so it’s understandable, but last week he was talking about the Frosbee Flip in relation to hurdles. Now, I might not be an athletics buff, but I’m pretty sure there’s a difference between hurdles and the high jump. Miss Hooper would make no such mistake; she just makes us do non-stop laps because she’s a devil woman, or if she’s in a good mood she’ll split the class into the proficient, muscled sports team lot, and the rest of us, hand us all hockey sticks, tell us to put our mouth guards in and leave us to get slaughtered while she goes away to file her nails. Have you ever had you shin bone repeatedly hacked at with a hard wooden stick under the pretext of a tackle? No? It’s not pleasant, especially when they get around the shin-guards. It has the effect of making me want to take my own wooden stick and beat them round the head with it until they pass out, but apparently, that’s not allowed, so the skill is to make it look accidental when you try smash their teeth in – like you’re mal-coordinated enough to bash them on the back swing by mistake. But I don’t really care about the hell she’s going to put us through in the next two hours. I’m wondering where Mike is.

Having successfully survived the carefully devised death trap that was Miss Hooper’s lesson with only an incredibly bruised leg and a hockey ball to the face (my nose is alright, but my lip is split and puffy), I grab a lukewarm shower along with everyone else, to scrape the liberal coating of blood and mud off my hairy legs. Me, the guys are just about alright with even after the Speedos incident, but Doug can clear a packed shower room in the time it takes him to switch on the tap. He’s tried his luck with one too many of them, see? He’s got a reputation. It’s great though – me and him get to take all the time we want easing out strained muscles without twenty other guys breathing down our necks jostling for space under the spray. If the water was a bit hotter, it would be totally ace. Of course, the downside is I have to risk Doug perving over my naked body. Some days, I understand exactly why the shower room clears out so quickly when he comes in. Today’s alright though because he’s plotting his moves with the rugby kid.

Dobbs meets us outside the gym and me and him split off, leaving Dougie to find his unsuspecting victim. I didn’t ask what year the kid’s in, but it can be safely assumed it’s at least two years below, which would make him about fifteen. That makes me cringe a bit – Doug’s always tried it with the young defenceless types. The concept of keeping it legal doesn’t seem to bother him. We go by Nigel’s and get chips. Dobbs gets a burger as well and I get a steak pie with for my tea. We eat at one of the shiny tables, watching half the school come in for a variety of things – burgers, drinks, pizzas, kebabs – the usual intestine-rotting junk, while Dobbs slurps his Irn Bru and I prod at the beads of condensation on my Tango.

I’m too knackered and sore to be bothered talking and Dobbs ain’t exactly known for his longwinded speeches. It’s all gravy – we’ve been mates long enough to nick each other’s chips (different sauces, see?), pat stomachs and belch without all that much conversation, and really, who needs to talk when you’re eating? I tug my tie off and shove it in my bag as Dobbs starts something.

“D’you hear? Ryan from year twelve’s planning a fight.”

I dunk a chip into my gravy. “What? Again?”

Every now and then the guys from the year below decide that they should be the muscle in the school and try to overthrow the ones in power. We did it when we were year twelve too – it’s a tradition. The girls disappear for the afternoon, unless they’re bloodthirsty, and all the guys from both years beat the crap out of each other for no apparent reason. Once the body count’s done by the end of it, and the teachers have hauled in a scapegoat, a winner is declared. Last couple of times, it’s been us, but that doesn’t mean victory is painless.

Dobbs nods. “Yeah. Some time next week. It’s going to be big. You going to pussy out?”

I give him a sharp stare. I have never pussied out. “No.” There are at least five cocky bastards in the year below I’ve been waiting for an excuse to punch, and in all the confusion I might just find my knee in Angel-Boy’s nuts. “Just give me a heads up when you know the day,” I say, folding my empty polystyrene dinner box closed.

We have a couple of hours to kill, so we go back to the library and work. I get bored and scribble graphic drawings of him, my neighbour and the tree house in between figuring out maths problems. He goes bright red and gives me a dead leg, which fudging canes I can tell you, but his expression was hilarious. Dobbs is like my pet Neanderthal. He’s thick as two planks of wood sometimes, but he’s awesome.

Eventually, the appointed time is reached so Dobbs and I pack up our stuff and trudge off to meet Doug at the Rose and Crown. Takes about half an hour to walk there, but everyone who goes to our school knows it’s the best place for miles. When I say everyone, I really do mean everyone, which can get a bit awkward when you’ve just wheedled your way into an underage pint of Tetleys and turn around to see your French teacher standing there with her double gin and tonic and her husband, giving you this look like she’s either going to grab your ear and dob you in it for not being eighteen, or put a line straight through the next bit of work you hand in without bothering to read it and then write a letter home to your Mum.

It’s one of those large pubs with widescreens for the sport and a beer garden for the kids and the smokers. It’s too big to be an old man pub, and it’s all commercial lagers rather than a lot of ales to choose from. ‘Course, it’s probably owned by one of the breweries whose stuff they’ve got on tap. I don’t give a rats arse who it’s owned by as long as the drinks are relatively cheap and they keep serving us.

Dobbs is all legal now anyway – turned eighteen ages ago, otherwise we wouldn’t even be trying to get served in school uniform. I try to find a table, scouting round for sight of Dougie, but eventually just settle for a wonky beer ledge up against one of the walls by the entrance to the bogs with a bad view of the screen (a real shame) and a couple of mismatched bar stools with dried gum stuck to the seat. Dobbs comes back with two pints of Strongbow because he can’t order for shit and always forgets that he’s the only one of us who likes cider. I grudgingly hand him over some cash even though I asked for bitter.

Scanning the crowd, I finally make out Dougie and hit Dobbs on the shoulder to point him out. He’s with a group of about five other people, most of whom are drinking coke, and he’s got this poor sod cornered. He’s in his trade-mark flirting position – dead in front of the kid, eyes fixed firmly on his, leaning forward and vitally, his lips always kept just that bit open in an evil smile and it really wouldn’t be Dougie if he didn’t have one foot up on the kid’s chair, effectively making escape impossible. The blonde kid looks a bit too stunned to do anything. Lord knows how he got himself detention – butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. I turn back to Dobbs and shake my head.

“Do we rescue him, or wait ‘til he gets punched?”

He shrugs, “Don’t think Doug’s twigged yet.”

Dobbs is right. If we dragged Doug off now we’d get yelled at and have to listen to how the kid was just about to whip him off to the bog to suck him off and how we just ruined his perfect evening and just because Angel-Boy’s a knob and Dobbs never gets laid it doesn’t mean we have to ruin his chances, and if I’m really that jealous then maybe that says something and I should be the one to make it up to him. I sigh and grab my pint. Cider is preferable to Doug’s fantastical rantings.

Dobbs prods me and demands I switch places because he wants to see the screen. I try to pay attention to the match for a bit, but soon get bored so I mumble something about crisps and head towards the bar. There’s no queue because everyone’s got their match time pint and most of the eyes in the room are fixed to one of the screens. I sidle up next to some guy who’s practically passed out on his bar stool slumped over the wooden bar nursing something so strong it makes my eyes water standing next to him. I’m dead good at not looking at people who are a bit odd. It’s a skill that means I’m less likely to invite being beaten up or robbed by weirdos, so I have no problem pretending the drunk isn’t there as I order two packs of McCoys. But the bar maid’s got her mind on the match and I manage to time my request at a particularly tense point, so she pauses with her hand in the crisp box for a good five minutes as some muscled hero makes a break for it, in an attempt to score a try. Frustrated, my eyes start wandering – Dobbs is staring at the screen, Doug is staring at his boy toy, the boy toy’s watching the match, the drunk is fairly young and well dressed. He shifts his head on his arm so I can see more than just hair and my stomach shoots through to the floor.

“Mr Ro- Mike?”

He turns his head slowly and blinks at me before sitting up straighter. He’s not as rat-arsed as I thought he was, which is a bit of a relief because I don’t know if Mum would be all that happy knowing I was there when one of our lodgers died from alcohol poisoning. He rubs a hand across his face.

“Nick. What’re you doing here?” The words aren’t exactly separate, but he’s not trying hard to keep them apart. He still manages to sound like a bloody teacher though.

“Watching the rugby,” I tell him, because it’s nearly the truth and why I’m here doesn’t seem to be the issue, but damn him if he doesn’t laugh, even though he’s completely off his face. He smiles at me, eyes softly unfocused.

“No you’re not.”

I glare a little bit, trying to determine from his wavering exactly how much he’s had. “Neither are you,” I challenge, and the bar maid tells me I owe her one pound sixty five. I hand over two quid and ask for a pint of water as well.

“Thirsty?” he smiles, leaning on the bar again, biting his lip as the bar maid hands me the glass and my change. I can’t stop myself looking him over. I was right about the smart clothes – he’s all shirted and shoe-shined, definitely not what he was wearing this morning, and he’s too bloody drunk for me to be thinking about kissing him. Fudge this. He’s the one who’s supposed to be taking advantage of me. Has he not seen any student-teacher porn? This is all the wrong way round. And why the hell does he have to be here? In the place where if anything at all happens the whole school will know about it tomorrow morning. He must want to get fired.

I shake my head, nudging the water glass against his knuckles as I open one of the packets of crisps and lay it on the bar in front of me. “It’s for you. You’re hammered.”

He stares at the water glass his hand automatically closes around. “Yeah,” he agrees, his voice holding an element of realisation. “I am a bit.”

“Where were you this afternoon? Have you even had any tea?” I ask, stepping closer to him so I can lower my voice to avoid a scene as my protective, angry side kicks in. It’s well trained from having to deal with Treacle forever.

He shrugs and then shakes his head, avoiding my first question. “Didn’t have tea.”

I let out an annoyed breath. “Eat them then,” I tell him, sacrificing my crisps. “I’ll be right back.”

He makes an uncoordinated grab for my arm, narrowly missing knocking his water over, and ends up with his fingers curled in my shirt front. “Where’re you going?” he asks, untangling his fingers as his eyes meet mine, but then sort of forgetting he was meant to be moving them and just, letting them stay. I swallow hard, trying to concentrate on Anne Widdecombe, again, because I really don’t want to have an obvious stiffy when I sling his arm over my shoulder and drag him out of the pub. I’ll get annihilated tomorrow for teacher rape, he’ll get the piss ripped out of him like he’s never before experienced and then he’ll move out and I’ll have lost two crushes in a week. He smiles at me and leans a little closer as if he wants to say something else, but with my superior reaction times I manage to cut him off before he says something he’ll regret.

“To get my stuff,” I tell him, removing his hand. “And then I’m going to show you the wonders of the public buses, alright Sir?” I ask, trying to remind him and myself of our relative situations.

He nods once, smile dropping again. “Mike – told you already - call me Nick.”

Fudging hell he’s bladdered. I really shouldn’t be laughing. “Ok Mike,” I tell him. “I’ll call you Nick.”

He frowns a little, seeming to realise that’s not the right way round. He’s about to tell me off, but I cut in before he gets the chance. “Stay put.”

I shove my way back to Dobbs and chuck the other bag of crisps at him. I tell him my mum called and I’m in shit if I don’t get home in the next half hour while I grab my stuff together. Lying on the spot seems to come so easily I should be worried, but I’m not. Smoothly, I force him to stay a little longer at least by asking him to tell me how it goes with Doug and the kid. He’s not pacified when I hand over my half finished cider, but there’s not much I can do about that. He’ll probably go over and start extracting our ever hopeful friend in a minute and I do feel bad for making him have to do that alone, but I’m trying to protect the shredded tatters of Mr Roberts’ reputation here. It’s not like I’m getting any personal benefits from the situation.

“Catch you tomorrow,” I tell him, trying to sneak back to the bar without being too obvious about it. The match on the telly helps.

Mike gives me a lop-sided grin, looking me over as I help him off the bar stool, making more effort checking me out than standing up, which is exactly what I would have wanted from him in any other situation. With a gargantuan effort he finally stands up, but instead of being a nice cooperative drunk, he turns so he’s standing directly in front of me. Drunks often lack spatial awareness, but even so, he’s very, very close. He’s also standing there with a very stubborn look on his face I have no hope of leading him outside like this. “Nick,” he says as if he’s about to tell me something, but then his smile picks up again as he seems to forget any point he had. “Nick,” he smiles, filling my name with warm flames that start licking at my toes. He sighs and somehow – I have no idea how because I did not let him take it - he has a hold of my hand. He steps even closer, obliterating the gap between us as he places my hand over his crotch and squeezes his fingers around mine so I get a handful of everything in his underwear. I swallow, absolutely frozen to the spot with Mike pretty much draped all over me. Oh my God. Even though he’s too drunk to get it up, I’ve got an erection big enough for the both of us, and I should really think about moving my hand.

The law changed recently – if alcohol’s been consumed it doesn’t count as consensual sex. Right now, I hate that law because statutory rape is just a tiny bit out side my boundaries of morality and my control is edging out of the window. Oh fudging hell, tonight’s going to go so wrong.