Volcano

Every time Keith jerked away his hand Gary felt the lights of the departure lounge grow brighter.

“The kids will see,” hissed Keith.

The school football team spread across the bright airport tiles, people looking at their dark skins as if they were creatures of ash and tar. Gary could feel them ready to erupt. They'd been at the airport for four days.

They had grown tired of watching the huge white plume of the volcano, tired of the smell of rotten eggs. Sullen, the boys watched their teachers. It wasn't an adventure now.

No one at the school knew. They weren't ashamed, but they weren't like poor Martin, finding shit in his kettle, spending four months absent from stress, forever wiping 'Batty Man' from his whiteboard.

Lying in bed as they planned it, Keith had been wild with excitement.

“Those kids have never left Hackney. Just imagine them in Iceland. Imagine us together in Iceland.”

Gary wanted to rest his head on Keith's shoulder and go to sleep.

When one of the boys asked politely “Are you faggots sir?” Gary felt, for a second, a magnificent release of pressure.

Then he knew they were trapped.