Rigby Taylor
With brain and conversation on autopilot, Robert didn’t realise until Aaron thumped him on the shoulder, thrust a bit of paper into his hand and said, ‘That’ll be extra-shagabodacious, Rob me boy! Phone number’s there in case you come adrift,’ that he’d accepted an invitation to a party. Blood drained. Fingers froze. What the hell to do? The last thing he wanted was to go to a bloody party! Shit! Shit! Shit! He’d have to think of an excuse. A shadow made him look up. ‘I’m glad you’re going, Robert. Aaron’s parties can get a bit frantic.’ What the hell’s her name? He smiled vaguely at the thin, wide-eyed girl who asked lots of questions in class. Oh yeah, Maria. No, Marcia. What’s she on about? She hardly knows me. I could be a frigging rapist. ‘Why’re you going then?’ he asked lazily. ‘I heard you say you were going.’ ‘You’re joking!’ ‘How’d you guess?’ Marcia gave a tinkling laugh, tossed her curly black hair and joined a gaggle of girls at the jukebox. Cold sweat trickled underarm. What’s the matter with me? Why don’t I want to go to the party? Because you’re a fuckwit. Get out and have a good time like everyone else! But you don’t want to be like everyone else - they’re two-dimensional yobbos only interested in sex... The unsettling interior monologue continued until class, where his ability to focus on the job in hand let him shut out unwelcome questions and thoughts. Saturday arrived and as there hadn’t been time to develop a contagious illness, Robert jogged the two kilometres through chill drizzle to a rambling wooden house in a neglected allotment on a busy road. Traffic noise would have prevented a knock being heard even if the air hadn’t been pulsating with a Rock beat loud enough to anaesthetise. He followed the numbing blare to a medium-sized room lit by a couple of red bulbs and a strobe. Someone sprawled across a lounger, three girls jiggled in the corner by the stereo, and several boys were drinking at an ornate bar, its mirrored surfaces reflecting a
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