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own back.”
    Brenton laughed. “Let’s watch telly.”
    The duo trooped up the stairs and even though they only saw Mr Bond on the dodgy little black and white TV, both felt that Christmas Day hadn’t turned out that badly after all.

CHAPTER FIVE
No buts
    New Year’s Day, 1980
    B renton and Floyd had exhausted all their finances. Neither of them would receive any G’s from social security for a few days yet, so they spent the greater part of the morning weeding the ashtrays. They were searching for snout butts, so they could squeeze out the remaining tobacco and pastry a few joints.
    Wearing the look of someone who has just missed his last bus home, Floyd complained, “This is no way to live, man – smoking bloody butts. I have to find a way of making corn, ’cos I’m sick and tired of getting my digits dirty messing with friggin’ butts. I hope Sharon comes around later on. I’ll tell her to buy me some cancer sticks.”
    After torching his joint, Brenton became aware of his own ash and tobacco-stained fingers so he bewailed, “Shit, I’ve got ash all over my paws, just for a bloody smoke. We should break into Lewis’s room. He’s always got snouts on his desk.”
    Floyd could do nothing but laugh at their plight and joke, “This is crazy, man. We’ll be looking for butts in the High Street next.”
    “Speak for yourself.”
    The brethren chuckled as Floyd stretched out his hand to place a cassette tape in the laboured suitcase. Mr Lewis had advised them persistently on how to budget their social security G’s, and they had always set out to make their money last, but somehow they always seemed to run out of readies just a few days before their next payment. Lewis said they had only themselves to blame,since the government didn’t intend its benefits to be used to fatten the wallets of tobacconists, licensees and herb dealers.
    Brenton stared at his pal, with his neatly combed hair, heavy-looking gold chain and new trainers. Such a contrast to his own appearance. He asked, “Where did you get the new trainers from, man?”
    Looking down at his footwear proudly, Floyd answered: “Sharon bought me them for Christmas. She treats me good, innit? She’s always saying I should look smart and t’ing.”
    Brenton felt a little envious as he compared them with his own battered trainers. Looking at his friend again, he enquired, fingering his chin: “What council home did you go to?”
    “St Saviours. You know, the one just off Brixton Hill? It was all right there – not too strict, and the staff were easy. Like you could actually talk to them without them telling you how to become a responsible citizen.”
    Much to Floyd’s annoyance, Brenton spilled a few strands of tobacco on the floor, but he chose not to comment when he saw him bend down and pick up the precious brown shreds. Instead he continued, “But they had some stupid rules, like I had to be in by ten o’clock. That was kind of embarrassing when I used to have some fit piece of beef visit. But in the end they just gave up trying to make me come home by that time ’cos sometimes I wouldn’t come back till morning.”
    Brenton cocked his ears. He had heard of St Saviours and that its rules were less rigid than elsewhere. Floyd asked: “What home was you at?”
    “Pinewood Hills,” Brenton mumbled, tramping out the tobacco stain on the floor.
    “That’s that big place, innit? Yeah, I’ve heard of Pinewood Hills. It’s going south, innit, on the way to Brighton.”
    Brenton turned down the volume of the suitcase. He appeared very solemn, as if he was about to recall the tale of a lost battle. He sat down on the bed with his hands clasped together – he wantedto scratch behind his ear, but he became self-conscious. Captivated, Floyd listened intently as his pal explained: “Yeah, that’s right. It’s a massive place – it must have about eighty big mansion-type houses that they named after trees and plants.”
    Floyd rubbed his hands