'I ain't stayin' much longer,' the coloured boy said. 'It's too fuckin' cold.' His name was Wesley and he was on probation for purse snatching.

'Shut up an' wait a minute. Won't be much longer,' said one of his companions. His name was Vincent and he was on probation for half-killing his stepfather.

'I dunno, it's gettin' late, Vin,' said the third youth. 'Don't think there'll be no one about.' His name was Ed his friends thought it was short for Edward but, in fact, it was short for Edgar and he had recently finished his villain's apprenticeship in an approved school.

'What you wanna do, then, go 'ome?' asked Vince of his two friends. 'Got any money for tomorrow night?'

'No, but, I'm fuckin' cold,' Wesley told him again.

'You're always fuckin' cold. Miss the old Caribbean, eh?'

'Ain't never been there. Born in bloody Brixton, weren't I?'

'Get out of it. In your bloody blood. You all miss your bleeding sunshine. It's what makes your hair curly.'

'Leave 'im alone, Vin,' said Ed, peering around the edge of the shelter into the gloom. 'He's joinin' the Front, 'inne?'

'Do me a favour! They won't have 'im! He's a nig-nog 'imself.'

'Yeah, but I don't want no more of them comin' over 'ere. Specially those Pakis,' Wesley protested. 'Too bloody many.'

The other two youths shrieked with glee. The thought of Wesley marching along with the National Front holding a banner saying 'KEEP BRITAIN WHITE' was too much. Wesley was too puzzled by their laughter to feel aggrieved. Soon he was laughing with them.

''Ang on, 'ang on,' Ed said suddenly. 'I think there's someone comin'.'

'Right. Down to you Ed,' said Vin, springing to his feet. 'Me an' Wes'll be over there in the bushes.'

'Why always me?' Ed protested. 'You 'av a go.'

Vince patted him on the cheek, the last pat a little more forceful than the rest. 'You're so pretty, that's why. They like you more than us. Think you're one of them, don't they?'

Not for the first time, Ed cursed his own blond good looks. He would much rather have had Vince's tough, pock-marked features and short ginger hair than his own almost girlish looks. 'What about Wes, then?'

'Nah, they don't trust coloureds, do they? Think they're all fuckin' muggers.' He gave his black friend a playful shove. 'Right, innit, Wes?'

Wes grinned in the dark. 'They's fockin' right, man,' he said, mimicking his own father's accent.

Vince and Wesley ran quietly from the shelter, both sniggering and prodding each other as they went. Ed waited silently, taking a last drag from his cigarette and listening for the approaching footsteps. The common was a favourite haunt for clandestine lovers of all varieties, that variety having increased since the surrounding working class area had been infiltrated by middle-class residents. The cost of travelling every day from the surrounding suburbs to their jobs in London had become too much for the nouveaux pauvres. The area that had become multi-racial over the years was now fast-becoming multi-class. Ed threw the half-inch butt on to the ground, then took another loose cigarette from the pocket of his denim jacket. He was about to step from the shelter into view when he realized there were two sets of footfalls. He slunk back into the shadows.

The couple walked past the shelter, arms tight around each other's waists; Ed was worried that they were going to make use of his hideaway for their own purposes, but when they moved on he realized the stink of stale urine in the shelter would put any lovers off, no matter how desperate. He cursed under his breath and dug his hands deep into his pockets. There'll be no gingers about now, not this late, he told himself. Yet he knew from previous experience that the lateness of the hour meant nothing to certain lonely men, nor did the remoteness of the locations they wandered through. Sometimes Ed wondered if they went out of their way to be attacked. Maybe they enjoyed it. Or maybe it was their own subconscious way of punishing themselves for what they were. The last, deeper thought was immediately dismissed by one more obvious to Ed's way of thinking; maybe they just got more horny at night.

He looked out into the darkness towards the spot where Vince and Wes had disappeared. The feeble glow from a nearby lamp-post did little to pierce the shadows. He was about to call out to them, imagining them both giggling and playing around in the dark, when he heard more footsteps. Ed listened, making sure they belonged to one person. They did. The man came into view seconds later.

He was slightly built, about Ed's size. A heavy belted overcoat hung loosely on him, emphasizing his narrow shoulders rather than compensating for them. Definite poof, Ed told himself, not sure if he was pleased or displeased with their luck. He knew these men were easy pickings, that there was little danger from them; but something inside always made him scared of them. Perhaps that was why in the end he always used more violence against them than his companions did. The memory of when he had decided to tackle one on his own was still fresh in his mind for, instead of attacking his intended victim and relieving him of his wallet, he had let himself be used, then run off sobbing before he could even be paid. The shame of it still stung his face, and he knew his skin had become bright red in the darkness. If Vince and Wes ever found out . . .

'Got a light, John?' Ed had pushed all further thoughts away and stepped on to the pathway leading across the common.

The man came to an abrupt halt and glanced around nervously. The boy looked all right, but was he really alone? Should he walk on or . . . should he take a chance?

He took out his own cigarettes. 'Would you like one of mine?' he asked. 'They're tipped.'

'Oh, yeah. Thanks.' Ed stuck his battered cigarette back into his pocket and reached towards the proffered pack, hoping the man hadn't noticed his hand was shaking slightly.

'You can have the pack, if you like,' the man said, his face serious.

My Gawd, a right one 'ere, Ed thought. 'Oh, great, thanks a lot.' He pushed the pack into another pocket.

The man studied the boy's face in the glow from the cigarette-lighter. It became indistinct when he drew back, his cigarette lit. The man snapped out the small flame.

'It's rather cold tonight, isn't it,' he said cautiously. The boy was attractive in a rough sort of way. Was he genuine or just a tart? Either way, he'd want money.

'Yeah, bit nippy. Just out for a walk?'

'Yes, it's nicer when it's quiet. I hate crowds. I feel I can breathe at night.'

'It'll cost you a fiver.'

The man was slightly taken aback by the boy's sudden bluntness. He was a tart.

'Back at my place?' he asked, the excitement that had been triggered off at the boy's approach now accelerating.

Ed shook his head. 'No, no, it'll 'ave to be 'ere.'

'I'll pay you more.'

'No, I ain't got time. Got to be 'ome soon.'

The boy seemed a little afraid and the man decided not to push his luck.

'All right. Let's find somewhere nice.'

'Over there'll do.' The boy pointed towards a clump of bushes and trees and this time it was the man's turn to become a little nervous. It was so dark over there: the boy could have friends waiting.

'Let's go behind the shelter,' he suggested quickly.

'No, I don't think . . .'

But the man now had a surprisingly firm grip around Ed's shoulders. The boy allowed himself to be propelled towards the back of the wooden shelter, hoping his friends were watching. It would be just like those two bastards to leave it till the last minute.

They squelched through the mud at the side of the hut, the man warding off bushes that threatened to scratch their faces. They turned a corner and Ed found himself pressed up against the back of the hut. The man's face was looming larger in front of him, his lips only inches away, and Ed felt the revulsion rising in him. Fumbling fingers pulled at the zip of his jeans.

'No,' he said, turning his head to one side.

'Come on. Don't be coy. You want it as much as me.'

'Fuck off!' Ed screamed and pushed at the man's chest. His face had grown red-hot again and his vision had become blurred with sudden tears of rage.

The man was startled. He staggered back and stared at the youth. He began to say something but the boy rushed at him, lashing out wildly with his fists.

'Stop it, stop it!' the man screamed, falling backwards. Ed began to kick him.

'You dirty fuckin' queer!'

The man tried to rise, whimpering with fright now. He had to get away, the boy was going to hurt him. And the police might hear the disturbance.

'Leave me alone! Take my money!' The man managed to reach his inside pocket. He threw his wallet at his attacker. 'Take it, take it, you bastard! Just leave me alone!'

Ed ignored the wallet and continued to rain punches and kicks down at the curled form at his feet until his arms and legs grew heavy and his anger began to subside. He stumbled back against the shelter's wall and stood there leaning on it, chest heaving and legs weak. He could hear the injured man crying out but, for some reason, he could no longer see him lying there on the ground. The night darkness had somehow become more dense.

'Vin! Wes!' he called out when he had recovered enough breath. 'Where are you, for fuck's sake?'

''Ere we are, Ed.'

The youth jumped at the close proximity of their voices. It was almost as if they were inside his head. He could just see their dark outlines as they stood at the corner of the shelter.

'You took your time, you bastards. I 'ad to deck 'im on me own. Let's get 'is money and split.'

'Nah, I don't think so, Ed.' It was Vince's voice. 'Let's 'av some fun first.' He heard Wesley giggle.

This is stupid, Ed thought. It'd be better to get away . . . but it would be nice to do something to this cunt . . . something nasty . . . he was helpless . . . there was no one around . . . something that would hurt him . . . something . . .

There were other voices inside his head now, not just his own. Something was creeping along corridors in his mind, cold fingers that probed and searched, fingers that spoke to him and laughed with him. And he was leading them on, guiding them. The coldness was all-enveloping as it suddenly lunged and caught him in its icy grip, and he was pleased to receive it, the shock turning into pleasure like the swift effects of an anaesthetizing injection. He wasn't alone any more. The voices were with him and they told him what to do.

Vince and Wes had already begun and the damp earth that was being pushed into the struggling man's mouth stifled any screams.

The filling station stood at the edge of the common, an oasis of light in the surrounding darkness. The yellow Ford Escort pulled into the forecourt and came to a smooth halt before a petrol pump. The driver turned off the engine and settled back to wait for the attendant to emerge from his office. The car's occupants did not know that the man on duty, who was, in fact, the garage manager, had popped round to the back of the building twenty minutes earlier to lock up the toilets there; he didn't want any lingering customers at that time of night. Regretfully, he had had to let his usual attendant leave earlier; the man was obviously coming down with a bad attack of flu and the manager wasn't taking the risk of catching it himself. His profit margin was small enough without his being off sick and leaving the staff to run the garage. He'd go broke within a week with their fiddles. It was normally bad policy to man a garage alone at night, for it made the station an easy mark for villains; but tonight he had no choice. He kept the door of the office overlooking the forecourt permanently locked and scrutinized every customer that came in for petrol before unlocking it. If he didn't like the look of them, he turned the OPEN sign around to CLOSED and ignored their muffled curses. It had been well after twelve when he remembered the toilets were still unlocked.

'You sure it's open, George?' the woman next to the driver said testily. 'There doesn't seem to be anyone around.'

'It says "open" at the entrance,' her husband replied. 'And look, on the cashier's door. There's another "open" sign.'

'I should give him a toot, George,' said the driver's father-in-law from the back seat.

'I'll give him a minute. He might be round the back.' There was nothing pushy about George.

His wife, Olwen, pulled the hem of her flouncy, sequined dress into a tight bunch over her knees, afraid the chiffon and layers of netting would pick up dirt from the car's interior. A large polythene bag was draped over the passenger seat to protect her meticulously made ballroom frock and fur shouldercape from any hidden grime. Her high coiffured hair brushed against the car roof as she stared through the windscreen, her mouth set in a firm straight line.

'We should have won,' she announced grimly.

'Now, Olwen,' George said patiently, 'Nigel and Barbara were very good.'

'That's right, defend them. I suppose it doesn't matter that they bumped us twice on the dance floor. Never even apologized afterwards. You'd have thought there was no one else in the ballroom the way they pranced around. We should have objected. Bloody judges should have spotted it.'

'Well, we were runners-up, dear.'

'Runners-up! That's the story of your life, isn't it, George? That's all you'll ever be.'

'There's no call for that kind of talk,' Olwen's father rebuked.

'Shut up, Huw,' said Olwen's mother who sat cramped in the back with her husband. 'Olwen's quite right. She could have been ballroom champion by now, that girl.' She did not add, 'with a different partner'. There was no need to.

'Take no notice, George,' Huw said. 'Neither of them are ever satisfied.'

'Satisfied? What have I got to be satisfied with? What have you ever given me?'

'I'll give you the back of my hand in a minute.'

'Dad, don't speak to Mother like that.'

'I'll speak to her however I . . .'

'You certainly won't. You see what he's like, Olwen? You see what I've had to put up with all these years?'

'Put up with? I've had your nagging . . .'

'Nagging?'

'Mum doesn't nag.'

'She nags all the time. Same way you nag poor old George.'

'Me nag George? I never nag George. Do I ever nag you, George?'

'The attendant's a long time,' said George.

'Well bib him.' Exasperated, Olwen reached across George and thumped the car's horn. 'Lazy bleeder's probably sleeping under the counter.'

George ran his finger and thumb along his thin pencil-line moustache, smoothing down the Brylcreemed hairs, and briefly wondered what would happen if he punched Olwen on the nose. She'd punch him back, that's what would happen. And she could punch harder.

'Ah, here he comes,' he said, pointing to the figure that had emerged from the darkness at the rear of the garage.

'It's about bloody time,' said Olwen.

'Don't swear, dear, it's not very nice.'

'I'll swear if I like.'

'George is right, Olwen,' said her father. 'It's not very ladylike.'

'Leave her alone, Huw,' said her mother. 'She's had a lot of stress this evening. George didn't help by letting her fall on her bottom in the pas redouble.'

'Best part of the bloody evening,' her father remarked, smiling at the memory.

'Dad!'

'Take no notice, Olwen. It's just like him to enjoy seeing his own daughter make a fool of herself.'

'Mum!'