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them?’ he’d asked Tragic.
    â€˜Jane got them for me. She found them.’
    Monkey eyed him, unconvinced. Tragic never could lie.
    â€˜OK - if you say so.’
    Monkey hadn’t pushed it. He’d sat back and watched in awe at the skill of those old guys. He knew, of course that competition was the enemy of co-operation but, to watch those old footballers working together and scoring goals and winning trophies, it certainly didn’t look like competition had spoiled their co-operation - that was real teamwork. And the thrill they’d shown when they’d driven the ball into the net, it was inspirational: like nothing he’d ever seen before.
    That’s when he and Tragic had started going out to kick a ball around - and score goals - even though it was only against a door or between jumpers. Several times a week, they’d split from the hood, watch the old vids and then go out and play football. It had become their ‘thing’. And, that morning, the boring vid of the old geezer with his arms crossed had only served to remind Monkey of Tragic’s absence and the fact that, in five days, when Tragic graduated, it would be a permanent situation. It wasn’t something he wanted to dwell on.
    â€˜Hey, who wants to see some gore?’ he pushed back his chair noisily and sauntered across the classroom to the table where Angel was sitting with a group of pre-nurturers. Ignoring Mov Felton’s pleas to sit down, pay attention and think of others who wanted to learn, he pulled the bandage away from his palm to reveal the top of the gash on his hand.
    â€˜Neat, eh?’ he said, smiling at Angel.
    Moni Morrison leant across, looked at his hand, then flashed him a smile. ‘Quite the wounded soldier, aren’t you, Monkey?’ Moni, the daughter of a T.R.E.A.C.L.E. trainer, and an enthusiastic assistant at meetings herself, had always had a soft spot for Monkey: a soft spot that was far from reciprocated.
    â€˜What’s it to you?’ Monkey retorted coldly. If Monkey dreamt about being chosen for breeding by Angel, he had nightmares that Moni might get to him first. He was eager to dispel any possible feelings that she might be harbouring in that field.
    â€˜You do know that conflict never resolved anything, don’t you?’ Moni went on. ‘It’s so pre-war. Civilised societies communicate with empathy.’
    Monkey raised his eyebrow and shrugged. ‘Guess it must be in my genes.’ And he walked from the room, throwing Mov Felton the excuse that he needed to relieve himself.
    Later that afternoon, Angel walked home from school with him and expressed no surprise when he retrieved his blade from between the walls.
    She pointed to his bandaged hand. ‘It must hurt,’ she said, keeping a circumspect distance from him as they talked. Any behaviour that smacked of flirting was strictly forbidden outside the Breeding Centres.
    â€˜Neh! You should’ve seen the other geez,’ Monkey laughed.
    â€˜You could’ve got caught,’ she went on, anxiously. ‘Didn’t you think of that?’
    â€˜We’re too clever.’ He ducked and dodged, avoiding punches like one of the pre-war boxers Tragic had showed him on vid. ‘We’re like neenjas.’
    Angel smiled. ‘So, what happened to Tragic, then? If you two are so clever, why didn’t he turn up today? Was he arrested?’
    â€˜Neh!’ Monkey laughed, as though it was the most ridiculous suggestion in the world. ‘He had a meeting about his graduation,’ he lied. ‘I’m just going to see him now.’
    Angel looked at him but said nothing. Monkey averted his eyes guiltily and they walked on in silence until they came to the disused bridge.
    â€˜See you tomorrow,’ Angel said, giving a slight wave and heading home.
    Monkey gave her a nod before turning southwards towards The Village boundary and Tragic’s house. He felt