By Ian Clark

It was 1994 and a Saturday night in Union Street, Plymouth. The city’s party artery, strung with cheap neon and littered with broken glass. People came here to drink, dance, take drugs, fight or fuck. Pubs and clubs leaned shoulder to shoulder, each with their own character but identical intent. Groups stumbled from doorway to doorway, shouting, laughing, hunting trouble or escape. Overflowing bins and the greasy stench of takeaway shops framed the scene.

A light drizzle smeared the air, turning every neon sign into a fractured blur across the puddles. It was just after midnight.

Three young men peeled away from the strip, heading through Stonehouse toward the Hoe. Two walked together, shoulders brushing. The third lagged a step behind, his posture bent, his trainers slapping awkwardly against the pavement.

That third one was Shaun. Twenty-two, wiry, slightly built, lost inside a purple hoodie, baggy jeans and red canvas baseball boots worn at the edges. His eyes darted, watchful, eager to please, but never quite belonging.

Ahead of him strode Baker. Stocky, five-eight, his black bomber jacket glistening under the drizzle. His jeans creased over scuffed brown boots, and his hair—long on top, shaved at the sides—was pulled back into a damp knot. He walked like someone who expected the pavement to move for him.

Beside him was Mark, taller, wrapped in a long brown suede coat with oversized pockets. Blue tracksuit bottoms clung damp to his legs, Adidas trainers leaving dark prints on the tarmac. Mark turned his head and spat into the gutter. Then he looked back at Shaun, his lip curling.

“I don’t know why you bother with him,” Mark muttered to Baker, his voice carrying. “He’s a fucking liability. Look at him. Fucksake.”

Baker brushed rain from his fringe, half-smirked. “Liability? He’s not the one got his face rearranged the other week.”

Mark’s jaw tightened. He was about to snap back, then thought better of it, eyes dropping to the road.

“Yeah, right, you cunt,” Baker added, satisfied.

Mark had form. He was known for starting fights, always hunting the weaker target. Usually, his judgement was good. He liked the quick distraction of blood and pain. A few weeks earlier, in a student club on North Hill, he’d picked on the wrong one—shoved a wiry art student, not realising the girl at his side had a boyfriend who boxed. Before the bouncer even reached them, Mark’s nose was broken, his eye split. He left that night clutching his face and his pride.

Tonight, he was itching to restore it.

The three moved through the drizzle, up toward the Hoe. The promenade stretched long and bare, lamps throwing pale light across wet tarmac. The sound of the sea drifted in, dark and constant.

They stopped beneath a wrought iron and wood shelter. Shaun dropped onto a bench, hood up, watching the droplets burn orange under the streetlights. Baker and Mark stood.

“We’ll meet you back here,” Baker said, pulling his wet hair tight against his scalp. “Don’t take too long.”

Shaun nodded. “Okay.”

“And don’t pick a fucking boxer this time,” Baker smirked, nodding at Mark.

Shaun pulled his hood lower and started across the Hoe. Behind him, the two figures slouched on the bench, cigarettes glowing like fox eyes in the dark. Out at sea, boats blinked, their coloured lights bobbing in the mist.

The club entrance was a flight of steps down into a basement courtyard. The doorman looked him over, expression flat, then waved him through.

Inside, the air was thick with smoke and stale beer. Tables and chairs clustered in corners, the dance floor small, sticky, pulsing with bodies. A bar glowed at the far end. The speakers blared Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine—“the comfort and the joy of feeling lost.”

Shaun leaned against a column, pint of weak lager in hand, scanning faces. He searched for someone apart, someone unanchored. His eyes landed on a young man standing awkwardly on the edge of a group.

Second-year history, twenty-two but boyish. Cable-knit green jumper, black jeans, brown lace-ups. Hair longish, unstyled. He held his pint too carefully, laughed half a second late. Out of sync. Alone.

Shaun crossed the floor, easy grin masking nerves. “Hi man, how you doing?”

The young man gave a quick laugh. “Not bad, you?”

“I’m doing good, my man. You on your own?”

“Yeah. Friends didn’t want to come out. Thought, well, why not?”

“Yeah, why not indeed. I can’t stand staying in on a Saturday. You puff? Smoke?”

He glanced around, lowered his voice. “Yes. When I can get it. Which isn’t often.”

“So you wanna score?”

His eyes lit, nervous and hopeful. “Well, yes. How much do you want?”

“Easy, tiger. Let’s go outside.”

He downed his pint, nearly spilling it, and followed.

The cold slapped them as they stepped out.

“What’s your name, man?” Shaun asked.

“Lawrence.”

“Good name. Solid. I’m Tony.” The lie rolled out of him before he could stop it. Self-loathing pricked instantly.

“Good to meet you, Tony.”

“Likewise, man. Let’s take a short walk. Meet some friends, they’ll sort you out. What are you after? Sixteenth? Eighth?”

“I’ve got about twenty left.” Lawrence fumbled a wallet from his coat, a crisp note flashing.

“Easy, man. Keep that down. You’re eager, eh?”

“I’ll be honest—I’ve only tried it once. Really liked it. Detached but aware, you know?”

Shaun smiled. “Detached but aware. I like that. We got some lovely rocky you’ll get off your face on.”

They headed back toward the shelter. Baker and Mark were waiting, smoke curling from their lips. Baker swigged from a Tennents Super can, wiped his mouth, passed the empty to Mark.

“Geddon, boys,” Baker called.

“Alright,” Shaun said. “This is my mate Lawrence. He wants to buy some of that lovely rocky.”

“Hello,” Lawrence said, polite.

“Sit down, mate,” Baker grinned. “Move up, let the man sit.”

Lawrence slid between them, obedient. Shaun leaned against the shelter wall, rain dripping through the cracks above.

Baker pulled a cling-wrapped lump from his pocket. “That’s a Henry. Fifteen quid, my man.”

“A Henry?”

“An eighth. Henry the Eighth. You study history, right?”

Lawrence laughed, nervous. “Yes. History.”

“Well, this is Henry. Good gear.”

Lawrence’s hand trembled as he passed the note. Baker winked at Shaun, quick. Mark peeled off a fiver change and shoved it back.

“Where you heading now?” Mark asked.

“Home,” Lawrence said. “Near the station.”

“How about we come up, have a little party?” Baker said.

Lawrence hesitated. “I’m tired. I don’t know.”

“I’ve got something’ll sort that.” Baker peeled off a glove, produced a paper wrap, dabbed white powder on his gums, grinning. He held it out.

Lawrence looked at Shaun, uncertain.

“Go on,” Shaun said, voice flat.

He dipped a finger, copied Baker. Grimaced at the bitter sting.

“That’s it, my man. Keep you up all night.” Baker slapped his back.

They walked through the wet streets, city lights bleeding in the mist. Shaun kept pace with Lawrence, the others trailing, laughing under their breath.

By the time they reached North Road East, Lawrence was buzzing, rambling. “I’m glad I met you. This is good. I was worried but now—I feel good, very good.”

Shaun forced a nod. His stomach knotted.

The house was a student terrace opposite an underpass, hallway narrow, magnolia walls, scuffed. A cab idled outside the booking office next door.

Lawrence’s key scraped the lock, the light clicking on with a hum. “Come in, come in. First guests I’ve had.”

Upstairs, Lawrence’s room sprawled, bed against one wall, green sofa near the door, bookshelves cluttered with fantasy novels and Dungeons & Dragons manuals. Posters of dragons and women in chainmail bikinis sagged on the blu-tack.

“I’ve cider,” Lawrence said, eager. “Not great, but—” He hurried out, down to the kitchen.

Baker stretched, pulled his gloves back on. “Cunt’s speeding his tits off,” he muttered.

“Harmless,” Shaun said quietly. “Look at this. Dragons and magic.”

Mark smirked, eyes dark, the kind of look that carried an undertone of learnt violence.

Lawrence returned with a two-litre bottle and four glasses, sloshing foam onto the table. He set down a chess set in a polished wooden box—an eighteenth birthday gift, he explained brightly, as though anyone cared.

“Music?” Mark asked, handing him a tape.

Lawrence slid it in. Hard house, pounding, metallic. He forced a grin. “It’s harsh, but kind of growing on me.”

Baker picked up the chess set, weighed it in his gloved hands.

“You play?” Lawrence asked.

Baker’s faint smile didn’t reach his eyes. Lawrence glanced sideways at Shaun. For a flicker, fear showed—a glimmer of realisation, too late.

Then Baker swung.

The box cracked against Lawrence’s jaw. A wooden thud, sickening. He crumpled sideways, pint glass rolling under the bed.

Mark was on him instantly, boots slamming ribs, then head. Lawrence curled, arms over skull, groaning. Mark kicked harder. Baker stamped down, twice, the body jerking under impact.

Shaun froze by the door. The room shrank. Noise filled it—kicks, grunts, the bassline still thudding. A lone white queen chess piece rolled to Shaun’s shoe.

“What the fuck?” Shaun snapped, voice breaking. “You fucking psychos.”

Baker’s head whipped up. He crossed the room in two strides, slapped Shaun hard across the face.

“Don’t just fucking stand there, wanker.”

Shaun’s cheek stung. He looked at Lawrence. Eyes wide, unfocused, two teeth on the carpet, blood threading toward the skirting board.

Shaun crouched, yanked open the bedside drawers. His gloved hands found cash, a passport. He passed them to Baker without meeting his gaze.

“Let’s fuck off.”

They bolted, hoods up, slamming the door behind them. Lawrence lay flat, chest rising in shallow, ragged pulls. A red bubble of spit trembled on his lips, burst, re-formed.

Down the stairs, a housemate peeked from a doorway, saw the three shadows, slammed it shut again.

They spilled into the street, drizzle slicking their coats.

In a car park stairwell, sodium light flickered over damp, graffitied concrete. Baker dabbed powder from a wrap, eyes wild. He shoved notes at Shaun. “Now fuck off.”

“Wanker,” Mark added, grinning.

Shaun turned away, shoulders hunched, hands in pockets.

By the time he reached the Hoe, the adrenaline and the drugs had drained, leaving a sour crash. He slumped on a bench. Images fractured inside his skull: Lawrence’s teeth on the carpet, the white queen by his foot, Baker’s slap, the blood.

The drizzle had eased. Grey dawn seeped in, light exposing everything he wanted to stay hidden. The sea churned black, indifferent.

He rocked forward, arms around himself, palms smacking his own skull. Tears cut down his cheeks.

Out on the water, three cormorants perched on a raft. A tug chugged past, a man tightening a rope on an iron bollard. Ordinary life, continuing, indifferent.

Shaun stared at an empty lager can by his foot. Tilted it. Rainwater slid down, first one path, then another, depending on the angle. He thought about choices, the paths you tilt toward, how easily the water shifts.

He pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket. A phone number scrawled. Flipped open his battered mobile. Looked up at the pale sky. Dialled.