Jam by Jake Wallis Simons Page B

seriously. Piece of meat.
    For some minutes his mind soared above the earth, images and thoughts passing through quickly, leaving no trace. Before the festival he hadn’t smoked much, but now he felt like a pro. Life had another dimension to it: getting stoned. It was lovely. He loved it, it made him feel good. How could he have gone for so long without it? Like living without the ability to see. And this skunk was really something else. Slowly but surely, he fell into a fuzz.
    â€˜All right?’ said Stevie.
    Natalie heard his voice from far away. ‘Fine,’ she said, after a time. ‘You?’
    â€˜You look pretty wasted. That shit must be good. You’re a lucky sket.’
    Natalie heard a girl’s laugh, and realised it was her own. How strange. Nothing within her felt like laughing.
    â€˜You’re a hot sket, you know that?’ Stevie was saying. ‘Have I told you that before? A hot sket.’
    â€˜Piece of meat?’ she replied. But then she realised that she hadn’t replied, she had just intended to, and she was unable to make her mouth speak.
    â€˜We’ve got some good times ahead,’ said Stevie. ‘Trust me, this has only been the beginning.’
    Natalie’s eyes were closed now, but she could nevertheless see Stevie in great detail; his tightly curling hair, waspish face, amber-coloured eyes; his white, white hands stained with a thicket of freckles; the quick way that his lips pulled back from his teeth into a grin; the Puck-like sense of mischief that surrounded him like a scent; the way that everything, every conversation, every gesture would turn out to be smacking of sex.
    She was spiralling downwards in a velvety loop, falling into dead unconsciousness. Her parents were there, as well; her dad – a clammy-browed mechanic perpetually on the verge of collapse – and her mum, glamorous in a way that made up for her age. She saw them sitting at the kitchen table at home, arguing about the amount her mother was spending on shoes, about the hours her father was working. Both were second-generation immigrants from Barbados. Their fathers had both come to England to work for British Rail. Their families were intertwined almost inextricably; they were bound together by more than their personal affections; and such bonds, which were created as much by community as by love, were both profound and stifling. They were immensely proud that she had gone to university, but at the same time suspicious. This was the context in which she grew up. She still did not know who she was. The kitchen table vanished; the argument and its particulars vanished; her parents, too, spiralled off into the darkness. And she knew nothing more.
    *
    After a few minutes, Dave’s power of hearing began to return, and he remembered where he was, and rose to the surface again. He wanted to tweet about being biffed, but was too biffed to do so. There was a strange sort of rhythm, a regular scraping noise. More than just a noise; the body of the car was moving gently to it. His head felt like a potato. He heaved it up and revolved it until his eyes were pointing at Stevie’s seat. There was no sign of him. He instructed his neck to turn his head back and rest once again on the headrest, and for a moment he thought it had happened. But then his head was turning the other way instead – a movement on the back seat had caught his attention – and his arms were pushing his body up in his seat, and his spine was twisting, the muscles working like worms.
    Stevie was sitting beside Natalie on the back seat. For a moment Dave saw only a scattering of colours, then things gradually became clear. The rhythmic scraping sound was coming from Stevie. His trousers were gaping like a gutted whale, and his penis was standing straight up. Dave could see it pale against his body even though he had made an effort to protect it from prying eyes by a blanket gathered around his waist. In