Old School Friends

Saturday nights at the Clifford Arms were not the epitome of
excitement. Most of the young people only used it as a meeting place -
a local to congregate in before moving on to more lively venues.
This was the first time Peter had met up with his friends since the
previous weekend and he was beginning to wonder if that was too soon.
He had a distinct feeling of d?j? vu.

"Come on, Pete, you can't turn down a party." Even Betty wouldn't leave
him alone. "There'll be plenty of girls there, won't there, Deb?"

"Yeah," Debbie concurred, "Sandra's really popular at the
office."

"You never know your luck, mate," Alan grinned mischievously, "That Lyn
might turn up. You could chance your arm with her again."
As far as Peter was concerned, Alan was still doing penance for his
performance at the White Lion. A glare was enough to remind him of
this.
"Only joking, Pete." He back peddled, momentarily, before taking up the
slack again.
"But I was right about her, wasn't I? You should listen to your old
Uncle Al more often."

Walter stepped in to prevent any further deterioration in the
situation.
"Take no notice, Pete. You don't have to have anything to do with him
once we're there. Come on give it a go. What you go to lose?"

"I seem to have heard that somewhere before," Peter said, thoughtfully
rubbing his chin. "Look, you and the others carry on, the darts team
will be back from the Angel soon, I'll stop and have a drink with
them."

They could all see from Peter's mood that any further attempts at
persuasion would be futile - his mind was made up. As soon as they had
drained their glasses, they wished him well and left.

Having a drink with the darts team was only a ploy. No sooner was the
coast clear than Peter had finished his pint and was heading for the
door, with every intention of having an early night. However, outside
the pub he happened to bump into Victoria Stretton - a girl he had
known at school.

"Hey, Vicky, How's it going? I haven't seen you for years. Hardly
recognised you," he lied. (He could have picked her out anywhere.)
Similar to Debbie, she was formed in the Barbara Windsor Mould, only
even more so, and had looked like that since the third year of
secondary school.

"Oh, 'ello, Peter Wilkins, ain't it? Fancy bumping into you."

"What brings you round this neck of the woods?" he asked.

"Don't ask me, Pete!" The smile dropped from her face. "Bleedin' chap
dain't turn up. I'm on me way 'ome now. What a cowin' way to spend a
Saturday night!"

He was struck by just how little she had changed. At King Street
Secondary Modern she had provided a practical introduction to sex
education for most of the boys in her class. Many were the lads who had
sacrificed their Jammy Dodgers or Wagon Wheels for a grope under
Vicky's bra. Soon after she had left school a story circulated that she
had graduated to having the full rumpy-dumpy with some bloke on a
motorbike, without either of them putting a foot to the floor. Peter
had always considered it to be an exaggeration. He suspected, if the
participants had no contact with the ground the bike must have been on
its stand and not actually in motion at the time, which, he thought
should be regarded as cheating.

"So you're at a loose end?"

"You could say that," she sighed, "You off anywhere special?"

He couldn't help giving her the once - over. Her black skirt, if
anything, was shorter and tighter than Debbie's. The white, sleeveless,
roll-necked sweater clung to her upper body and stained with the
pressure exerted by the massive mounds of her breasts. From what he
could remember, under the layers of make-up, her features were not
unattractive.

"Tell you what", he said, "why don't you step in here and have a drink
with me?" He motioned to the pub door. The words were barely out of his
mouth and Vicky had a foot on the first step.

"Thanks, Pete, I could murder a gin and tonic. Me feet are killin' me,
'angin' around for that bastard."

Peter felt the eyes trained on him as he made his entrance with Vicky,
but he didn't care. He needed cheering up and the, larger than life,
infamous, Miss Victoria Stretton was just the woman for the job.

While laughing over old times, they consumed drink after drink as if it
was going out of fashion. As the evening wore on, finding difficulty
keeping up with Vicky, Peter changed his tipple from beer to whisky. By
the time last orders were called he was well on the way to being
legless - but in the mood for more.

"What do you say to somewhere else?" he asked.

Vicky gave her impression of Mae West.
"What you got in mind, big boy?"

"A party."

"Lovely!"

"Right!" He slapped his hands together. "Let's get a couple of bottles
and go."

The party was in full swing by the time they arrived. The unknown girl
who answered the door was reluctant to let them in until Peter
remembered Sandra's name.
Once inside, Vicky volunteered to get the drinks while Peter carried
out a quick reconnaissance of the two main rooms. Seeing how crowded
they were, he settled for a seat on the bottom stair, where Vicky
joined him with a glass of red wine in each hand.

"Who do you think I just met in the kitchen?" she grinned. He shrugged
his shoulders to express his indifference. "Two old mates of yours -
Walt Baxter and Alan Cummings. Do you remember them at school?"

"Vaguely." He teased.

"That Alan 'asn't changed a bit," she giggled, "I 'adn't been there two
seconds an' 'e was feelin' me arse."

"Did you tell him you're with me?"

"No. Didn't get a chance. Some tart caught 'im and went mad. I don't
know what 'er problem was. Anybody could see it was only a bit of
fun."

Alan getting an earful of Debbie was something Peter was sorry to have
missed.

Being en route to the bathroom, it wasn't long before Peter's friends
located him. In the meantime he had topped up his alcohol level to such
a degree that he was in a state of near insensibility. Failing in their
attempt to hold a reasonable conversation with him, Alan and Walter
left Peter engaged in a heavy necking session with Vicky.

Completely oblivious to his surroundings, going at it hammer and tongs,
he was unaware of someone trying to squeeze passed him to ascend the
stairs, until he reeled to a sharp blow on the side of his head.

"Oi! Watch it!" He had difficulty focussing on the assailant.

"Sorry." Lyn Davies smiled sardonically down on him from the step above
his head. "I must have slipped with my foot."

Before he could retaliate she had disappeared up the stairs.
"Like bleedin' New Street station 'ere," Vicky complained. "Let's find
somewhere more private." She grabbed his arm and led him stumbling up
to the landing. Opening the first door they came to she dragged him
through.
"This'll do." It seemed the words had no sooner passed her lips than he
was sandwiched between her and the mattress of a single bed.

Perhaps, he thought, she had misread his unstable condition and
believed he was having some sort of attack. She certainly seemed in a
panic to loosen his clothing. And, for some bizarre reason, found it
necessary to remove her own. What was her objective? Was she trying to
revive him or was she trying to see him off? It was hard to tell. One
minute she was giving him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, the next she
was attempting to sever his jugular vein with her teeth. And then she
seemed to be doing her best to suffocate him by forcing large areas of
soft naked flesh over his face. Whether he was to live or die was of no
consequence. He was lost in a void, somewhere between hell and
ecstasy.

Frantic with lust, the cavorting couple failed to notice their chosen
place of passion was doubling as a makeshift cloakroom. This oversight
was cruelly brought to their attention when the bedroom door suddenly
swung open.
"Excuse me!" It was that woman again. The unmistakable figure of Lyn
Davies stood silhouetted by the landing light. Startled, Peter rolled
Vicky to one side and instinctively drew his open shirt across his
chest.

"What do you want?" he snapped.

"My coat, if you don't mind."

"Well get it bloody quick. Can't you see we're busy?"

Vicky propped herself up on one elbow. Unabashed by her nakedness, with
a weary impatient expression, she swatted wisps of bleached blonde hair
from her forehead as she watched Lyn's approach. Lyn cast a
disapproving eye over the bedmates.

"I don't know what you think you're up to," she hissed as she tugged at
one of the coats trapped beneath them.

"Easy," Peter explained, "We're having an orgy."

"Ignorant pig!" She spat the words at him. "You can't have an orgy with
just two people."

"In that case," he leered at her, "come and join us." He made a grab
for her but she was too quick for him. With one almighty heave of the
coat she sent him and Vicky sprawling over the far side of the bed and
onto the floor. Before they had time to realise what had happened she
was gone, leaving them groping around with the banging of the door
resounding in their ears.

Vicky was the first to recover. She shot to her feet, grabbed the
remaining coats off the bed, marched over to the door and threw them
out onto the landing.
"Now, with that bleedin' lot gone, there'll be no reason for anybody
else to disturb us." She flopped back down onto the bed and wrinkled
her brow at the corpse-like pallor of her partner.
"What's the matter, Pete? Ain't you feelin' too good?" she asked in a
manner of genuine concern.

To say he wasn't 'feelin' too good' was a gross understatement. The
shock of being hurled onto the floor had left him feeling dizzy and
nauseous. It had taken all his energy to merely crawl back onto the
bed. Right then he didn't know whether he wanted to throw up or pass
out. He took a deep breath.
"I'll be OK in a minute," he groaned.

Vicky was more convinced than he was.
"Course you will. I'll see to that!" she giggled before springing on
him and re-commencing with the mouth-to-mouth treatment.

It didn't take Vicky long to realise that this passive attempt at
resuscitation was having little or no effect. So, in desperation, she
resorted to the more active method of straddling his lower body and
bouncing up and down on him while muttering vague obscenities to the
rhythm.

She was a game girl and her persistence was commendable, but she was
fighting a lost cause. He was on the slippery slope to oblivion. And,
sadly, contrary to her gallant intentions, her vigorous efforts were
only accelerating his demise by causing the room to spin even faster
and faster.

? Copyright Paul Holmes 2001