''Hi mum!'' shouted the boy, as he opened the front door.
''Hello,'' his mum called from the kitchen: there was something ragged about her voice, as if she had recently been crying.
The boy turned to the girl behind him and raised his fingers to his lips. He ushered her to the stairs then ascended after her — his feet treading heavily, hers mincing from toe to toe. When they reached his bedroom he banged the door shut and switched on a stereo that looked like it could break the speed limit. She walked over to the desk where he'd lined up his medals — for swimming and athletics — and bent a long way over them.
''How did you manage to win so many?'' she asked.
He put his hand between her legs from behind, lifting the hem of the short skirt she wore to school, stroking her lightly through the fabric of her pants. She pushed her body back against his and he kissed her neck, her cheek, her parting lips. Then she turned around and sat on the desk with her thighs apart. She pulled him towards her by the waistband of his trousers, sliding her hand down as she did so.
''I love you,'' said the boy.
He put his hand behind her neck and kissed her. As she continued her explorations, he felt her fingernails against the base of his penis, a slight pressure on his pubic bone. Their kiss became steadily more passionate, rising to a climax, until a point when it stopped completely. The boy pulled away with a look of total incomprehension on his face. He tried kissing the girl again, but it was the same as before: nothing happened, he felt nothing, it was like taking a bite out of a flavourless apple. She watched with detached curiosity as he took a step backwards and wiped his lips.
"I'll ah... be back in a minute," he said, opening the door. She sat down on his bed with a novel unawareness of how far her skirt was riding up her legs.
He descended the stairs, looking at the banister, the wallpaper, wondering if anything else had changed. When he came to the kitchen he saw his mum toying with a glass of wine — one she had evidently lost interest in drinking. Face down on the table was a romantic novel, its cover embossed with a picture of a man and a woman embracing; next to that a scrunched up handkerchief was beginning to dry.
''Hi mum," he said, "are you... feeling okay?''
''Yes," she answered brightly, "better than I have for ages!''
''Oh," said the boy, "me too." He wondered if he was the only one who felt empty inside. "Do you know where dad is?'' he asked.
''Not sure," she smiled, ''maybe he's gone out for a walk."
This was a lie: she knew both where he was and that he had driven the car to get there. What she didn't know was that the thrusts of his naked body were bringing as little pleasure to him as they were to the impoverished young man who received them.
As the boy made to leave, she added, "why don't you ask Leanne if she wants something to eat?"
He returned to the hallway where the family dog was lying on its side, gazing with a bewildered expression at the viscid member poking through its fur. Without really knowing why, he entered the living room. He walked over to the television and switched it on — curious perhaps, to see if it still worked. He watched an advert for a can of soft drink that a women in a bathing suit was rolling down her cheek. He changed channels and saw a man in a bloodstained tee shirt, pummelling an adversary in front of a girl roped to a chair. He changed again and saw eight athletes sprinting towards a finishing line, each one for some reason determined to get there before the rest. He switched the television off and left the room.
Unsure of where to go next, but certain of his indifference to returning to his room, he opened the front door and stepped out into the early evening. It consoled him a little to see lights on in the other houses, but he wondered if behind those windows, as behind his own eyes, another light had gone out. When he tried to picture the scenes taking place his adolescent mind filled with absurdities: children being conceived amid strenuous relief, like pieces of heavy furniture lifted into place; religious zealots abandoning their penance and rising from their knees in search of comfortable armchairs; writers neglecting their frenzied scribbles to concentrate on crossword puzzles and unpaid bills. He shook his head and went back inside.
In the hall he had an idea. He picked the phone up and dialled a number, tapping his fingers against the handset as it rang.
''Hello,'' answered a toneless voice.
''Jack," said the boy, "is that you?''
''Yes.''
''What are you doing?''
''Nothing much,'' said Jack, and he meant it. Earlier he had been masturbating, now he was staring at the little red spots on his thighs.
''Has something changed Jack?''
Jack said nothing. He was in his underwear, lying on his bed. Scantily clad women stared at him from the walls and the lurid gloss of a pornographic magazine sprawled on the floor.
''Not sure,'' he answered, eventually.
When the boy put the phone down his goodbyes sounded brusque and mechanical, as if he'd been dealing with a customer helpdesk that couldn't answer his query, not with the closest ally of his adolescence. He decided he might as well go upstairs — at least there he could stretch out on his bed and tune in the radio to some light jazz or world music. When he got back in Leanne looked bored. ''Where have you been?" she asked, "you might have told me where you were going.''
''You sound like my mum," said the boy. ''I don't have to tell you anything. I go where I like, when I like, and there's nothing you can..."
His voice was apathetic; it grew steadily more listless before trailing off completely.
''Do to stop me?'' suggested Leanne.
''Yeah," mumbled the boy, crouching in front of a chest of drawers. "Stop me.'' He opened the bottom drawer, took out a small rectangular bundle and began to undo the elastic band looped around it.
''Fancy a game of cards?' he said.
