Apples by Richard Milward

when there’s sun and fun-shine outside and things to do. I walked onto Saltersgill field, and despite the dogshit, needles and dodgy characters there were at least daisies and dandelions and running water. And I walked and walked down past the banks of the stagnant beck, staring at the playing fields going gold and green and that’s when I realised all the suffering was over.
    But the suffering wasn’t over at all. On the way to school the Prick teased me about the beanie and the swelling, and I forgot I’d have to explain it to everyone. I told him I got thumped outside Easterside shops, and it was a regular occurrence but I felt crap. The sun was beaming out but I felt compressed. I switched off the Discman and I tried not to cry while I walked with him. The Prick was one of those friends you’d blow off if only you hadn’t grown up together. Everything to him was a piss-take, and as we went thundering down Marton Road he kept thumping and roughing me up, as if to prove he would’ve been alright in the same situation. It suddenly felt a lot colder, and when we got to Brackenhoe everyone was just as irritating in the form room. Abi complimented the Top Man beanie, but a load of kids I didn’t really like were going on about the green bumps on the side of my bonce. I slumped on the plastic seat and didn’t speak anything to anyone.
    We had History at half-nine on the top floor, and I watched the skyline strobe-light now and then – it was so sunny, the grass was bright blue and the grey buildings dripped pink. I tried to surround myself in friends and get through the next twenty-four hours, but I didn’t have all that many friends. I was wallowing in sadness under a big blue duvet cover. I sat with the Prick and he borrowed my pen to drum something on the tabletop, showing off. I kept my eyes outside. The Prick thought girls would go for him if he came across as some amazing rock star, but he was complete shite. Eve and Rachel Shannon were sat chattering in the back, and they weren’t noticing either of us. The Prick started to blast out this simple 4 ⁄4 beat, and when I heard one of the pens smash to bits it was obvious God would choose my fancy Papermate over the Prick’s blue Bic. There were a few giggles, but instead of getting wet eyes again I just crossed my arms and blocked it out. The Prick was laughing in my face; the worst part was thinking of Mum buying the stationery for me all special, but they were only pens. I blew out. He was still a fucking prick though.
    ‘Quiet!’ Mr Barley yelled loudish, coming in with another guy he introduced as Sergeant McAllister, dressed all in army attire and the regulation haircut. The Prick said a joke about fancy dress but it didn’t tickle me. Straight away the Sergeant spotted the girls at the back, he smiled and winked in a dead frustrating way. He seemed like a total cunt, but I was scared of his musclebound physique.
    ‘Alright now,’ he said, with a mixture of flexed biceps and bright beacon eyes. ‘I’m here to talk to youse about the army. I understand youse are coming to the end of the year now, and you’re wondering what direction youse might be wanting to take …’
    Sergeant McAllister went on like that for about forty minutes, and it was hard not to daydream. A life away from home building up strength and firing guns sounded superb, but only since my dad caught me having a wank. There’d been other violent occurrences where my dad was concerned – this one time I broke a china plate and he put my head in the microwave (which didn’t work), then another time I ran off the hot water having a shower and found myself hanging out the bathroom window by my tootsies (which did work). I shit myself. But on telly the army looked a bit too close to prison, scrubbing shoes and eating bollocks and getting shouted at, and I doubted I’d even pass the medical. I switched off and stared really blank into outer space. As you’d expect, the Prick