Pinprick by Matthew Cash Page B

who took him in the shop for the first time when we were thirteen and she was just a little twelve year old girl. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I just left the shop rubbing the tears from my eyes before they had a chance to bubble and bloom and run down my cheeks.
    Johnny… There was no more Johnny. He was my biggest loss.
    I met Johnny on the first day at Brooklands Primary School. There were weepy mothers standing around, waving goodbye to their children who were about to spend their first few hours away from their apron strings.
    Standing amongst them was Johnny. He was hard to miss in his huge bright orange raincoat, with a pair of aqua coloured wellington boots that sticking from under it. His little ratty face peered out from under the hood. I remember our mums were chatting beneath a tartan umbrella. They introduced us and then we walked into the classroom together. I sat beside Johnny even though I’d only just met him. It was an obvious attempt to grasp at something vaguely familiar amid a strange and unknown situation but we talked easily.
    The first thing he ever said to me was: “My name’s Johnny and I’ve been to space in a rocket!”
    Funny the things you remember.
    Various events and highlights from our school years will always be firmly embedded in my memory banks.
    Like the time when he fainted in Miss Burton’s class and was hanging off his chair in what looked like an impression of Superman flying upside down. That was the day I went to his house for dinner and our first sleepover.
    Then there was that time we found a stash of porn mags in the roof of the bus shelter and grossed each other out looking at the pictures.
    We shared endless memories of our endless summer holidays. When we were very young we spent all our time riding bikes and playing with toy cars and water guns. Over time our pastimes matured until we found ourselves content to hang out in each other’s rooms, listening to punk rock music and reading trashy sci-fi books.
    It was always me and Johnny. Whatever happened to him I hope it wasn’t painful. Maybe he went back to space in his rocket. That’d be nice.
     
     
    Karl
     
    Karl always made me think of the gormless friendly giant in Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men , George, or was it Lennie? Yeah, Lennie.
    He was a giant of a man and could hurl 50kg sacks of spuds like they weighed nothing. Apart from being a tad on the simple side there wasn’t anything wrong with him. He was a lovely bloke.
    I don’t remember the first time I spoke to Karl but I can remember him at primary school, in the class for the special kids. Even back then, he was the biggest person I knew.
    We weren’t friends back then, but when you live in the same village most people were familiar faces.
    So anyway, I was about fourteen when I first spoke to Karl. It was Boxing Day and the whole village was buried under an alluring four feet of undisturbed snow. We’d had to spend the previous day or so cooped up with our families so we were both stir crazy and wanted out.
    Christmas always seems to go on for so long, and even though I love it to bits, there’s only so many times you can fake enthusiasm for yet another matching socks and mug set from Aunty Ivy, or endure the chinking noises of Uncle Bertie’s false teeth as he makes eating custard sound like chewing marbles. Our relatives visit about often as Santa to exchange cards and gifts. They stay long enough to drink a cup of tea and eat a homemade mince pie, then they pull their coats on again and everyone makes the same solemn vow to visit each other more than we did the previous year.
    Dad always falls asleep with a belly full of food and wine, just like he does every Sunday afternoon, except this time he’s pulled a Christmas cracker and has a paper hat on.
     
    Washing up,
    Gift wrap,
    Quality Streets,
    The Queen’s Crap.
     
    So after another virtually identical Christmas me and Johnny went out for an adventure in winter wonderland.
    We decided to