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Felix.
    “Nearly ten,” I said. Having a sip of beer couldn’t be as nasty as touching Daisy Danforth.
    “Oh dear,” said Simon. “Nanny Felix says no beer.” His voice had shifted a bit, the signal to leave the room if we’d been at home. Benj belched again.
    Simon undid his fly and turned away from Daisy, trying to piss through the little hole in the top of the tin. We could hear some tinkling but see his hand getting half of it. He swore up a storm but got enough in the tin to make him happy.
    “Step up, Robbie,” he said. “It’s your big moment.”
    “Ooh, you never!” squealed Daisy.
    “Zip your fly, man,” said Felix, taking the pissed-in beer to free up Simon’s hands.
    I looked around, out across the black fields. Teeny squares of light from Daisy’s house shone on the one side and from the boarding school on the other. Distant headlights flashed briefly on a curve, showing where the road must be. All the civilised world was out of earshot. They’d snare me in an instant if I tried to run.
    “And after drinking piss?” I yelled. “I’ll be a big man like you?”
    Simon just laughed. “Drink up, sport.” He waved at Felix to hand over the beer.
    “Aw, Simon,” said Daisy. “Does he have to?” She slid her hand into his jeans pocket and moved it around.
    “Bugger off.” Simon wriggled away. “Come on, Robbie. Hold him, Benj.”
    “I’ll do it,” I said. “No one has to hold me.” I nodded toFelix. He held the can to my lips and tipped it. Warm beer gushed into my mouth. Beer, not piss. Felix had done a switch. He whacked me on the back at the same instant, forcing me to gag. I’m pretty sure he winked as I leaned over to spit, but perhaps not. Simon was laughing too hard to notice a thing.
    “Aw, you’re a trouper, kid,” said Daisy. “You want to feel under my skirt next time?”
    “No thanks,” I said. “Thanks anyway.”
    Benj punched my arm. Felix turned to the empty field and hurled the can as far as Scotland. Simon corralled my head with his arm. “My brother, the man, eh?”
    I got randy when I was twelve, maybe a bit younger. Simon was out there bonking girls like he was a studhorse. He’d slide in late, crashing down on my bed, cigarettes and beer stinking his breath, and something else on his fingers that he wouldn’t wash off.
    He’d stick those fingers under my nose and whisper, “That’s Carrie,” or, “Take a whiff of Lanny.” He’d moan, just thinking about it while he waited for sleep. “Oh baby,” he’d say. Then he’d punch my shoulder, flop an arm across my back. “Your turn next, mate,” he’d say. “You won’t believe what’s out there.”
    There weren’t any books at our house, but who needed them with nightly installments of The Adventures of Simon the Rutter, and pretty good it sounded too. Once he’d snored off, I’d turn over and work myself to glory, with his back warm against mine and a towel in my hand.
    Eventually, Simon took me along, pushing his girls atme, telling them, “Go on, make the kid’s night.” That’s when the worry started. I didn’t like it much.
    My first boy was an accident, me not realizing that’s what I wanted, me not knowing that anyone did. I’d heard the words queer and faggot and poofter a million times, just other words for ugly or yob or piss off .
    By fourteen I could get my own girls if I wanted, but Simon still took me along with his crowd, like a football mascot, or a clever dog, trying to get me a good bonking.
    “Come on, kid, how about Lanny? She’s got titties that’ll stop your heart.”
    “I’m going to find my own someone for the first time,” I finally told him. “I don’t want one of yours.”
    Simon was meant to be at that party too, but he’d stuck me with Abigail and then pissed off because he had a date with Kath. Later, Kath had his first kid, my nephew, Jerry, but we didn’t know that yet. Abigail was a dim cow, but loyal. While we waited in her garden for people