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Dylan’s the little jug-eared one running wild on E numbers and Ritalin.
    On the telly, some social-worker-type in ginger brogues is diagnosing the scruffy family’s problems. They need to work on their communication skills. Behind where he’s standing, the husband and wife are screaming abuse at each other while their pet Staffy goes round in a figure of eight trying to chew its tail off.
    I open and close my phone. No texts. No missed calls. Good. I was worried my mum might be trying to check up on me. I pick up the cider bottle one more time and splash the last drops evenly between the four tumblers on the table. We all drink up and get to our feet. It’s half past eight. Time to go.

four
    The sun is just beginning to go down as Robbie locks up and we start on our way to the Family Entertainment Centre. The sky over to the right, out across the sea, is turning pink. We wander to the end of our row and turn left along the path through Green Zone.
    As we walk I catch sight of us reflected in caravan windows. For the second time today, I think what a funny-looking gang we are. Different heights, different clothes. At Parkway College, lots of kids are into dressing like they’re in a tribe. Townies. Chavs. Moshers. Football Lads. We’re not like that. Me and Robbie look a bit Skater Boy, but not too much. Maybe our trademark is that we haven’t got a trademark.
    The four kids we saw earlier are still out and about. They see us and run across, walking alongside.
    The oldest girl, who looks about eight, wrinkles her nose.
    â€œYou boys smell of perfume,” she says.
    I laugh.
    â€œIt’s not perfume. It’s aftershave.”
    The girl nods. She’s in Harry Potter pyjamas and a pair of pink cowboy boots.
    The youngest lad picks his nose, rolls the bogey between his fingers and drops it on the grass.
    â€œAre you going to try to pull tonight?” he asks.
    â€œAbsolutely,” Dylan says.
    We keep walking. The kids have stopped following now.
    â€œBet you don’t pull,” one of them shouts.
    â€œCheeky bastards,” Robbie mumbles.
    Behind us there’s the sound of sniggering.
    We leave Green Zone and cut through the Blue Zone field. Two little lads are still in the adventure playground, swinging on the monkey bars, but the swimming pool is deserted. Quite a few people are outside the Family Entertainment Centre. There’s fifteen or twenty smokers huddled over to the left, three youths tooling about on bikes, and a man and woman in unofficial-looking England clobber working their way through a pile of scratch cards.
    The doors of the Entertainment Centre are open so we go straight in. My eyes take a while to adjust to the gloom. When they do, I start to pick out a few details. It’s a huge place, extending down to the left and ending with a raised stage that’s closed off by a pair of maroon curtains. In the far corner is a DJ booth, empty at the moment. There’s a bar all along the right-hand wall and hatches serving food dotted along the wall facing us. The middle of the room is filled with holidaymakers grouped around tables. Up near the front is a space for dancing. There’s a low murmur of talking, mixed in with the odd shout, and the chink of glasses and cutlery.
    We head down towards the stage, looking for somewhere to sit. Soon we’ve got ourselves a table and four chairs. I look around to see who we’re sitting near. I’m hoping there might be some girls about. It’s not too promising. On one side of us is a big lumpy family in head-to-toe towelling gear. The mother’s got a bandaged leg propped up on a chair and the kids are trying to make a shagged-out Alsatian drink beer from their dad’s pint glass. On the other side, a fat woman in yellow-rimmed glasses is holding the hand of a terrified-looking lad with a backwards cap and wispy facial hair. He looks younger than us. It’s the world’s crappest