Two, two the lily-white boys, clothed all in green O (IP)

She wonders where they go, for the few hours that they vacate the corner. Like an honour guard, dereliction of post is not an option - even if this post is just a low wall on the corner of Port Vale. There's a section of wall missing where a drunk driver hit it a few months ago; maybe they're standing guard in case he comes back to further his destructive work?

They are certainly very protective of it. Anyone who strays too near is challenged with baleful glares and phlegmatic snorts through bony nostrils. The butts of the cigarettes they smoke get flicked at passing cars, laughter tail-gating the ones that get hit. They asked her one summer's day, 'oi luv, git us some fags, a'ight?'. She'd smiled and shook her head as she walked past, wincing as their retribution overtook her ears and forced her to listen. She didn't understand all of the words they used, but still felt distaste at their sound. She always passed them on the other side of the rode after that.

In summer, when the town strips down to bare shoulders and knees, they insist on maintaining uniform. Their clothes almost match entirely, although she knows now, having passed them so often, that there are subtle differences between the two. They both favour a shade of dark green, a sheen of solvent fabric flashing sunlight back at those who look too close. The logos and badges mean nothing to her. They are just stripes and ticks and not symbols. The leers sticking forth from under their wan complexions match perfectly though.

She wonders where they don't go, and why they don't go there. Her own memories of childhood are of woods and mud, of sticks and trees that could be anything. Of dares and creation, of endless horizons and an infinitude of possibility. She looks at theirs and sees the corner of a low wall on Port Vale, herself looking back.