I read adventure stories and Science Fiction. I listened to rock music.I'd grown my light brown hair fashionably long. I joined in when mymates organised kickabouts in West Park, and when they bought bottles ofNewcastle Brown Ale from the off-door on Thornhill Road and sat onCameron Bank to swig from them.And I was in love with Lisa. That clinched it.Or it might have done if I'd felt the slightest stirrings of lust forher.You're being stupid, I told myself. Plug had made all that up. IfTestranol had those kinds of side-effects and they'd been exposed onnational television, how was it that nothing had appeared in the papers?Why hadn't the people who'd manufactured the drug been publiclydisgraced?I was still debating the pros and cons when I passed the cemetery gateson Jessamine Road. My long trek was nearly over; another minute or twoand I'd be at the crossroads where you could look past the allotmentgardens to the fields belonging to Throston Grange and Middle Warrenfarms, just yards. He liked fine things, like the feel of silk and satin, Egyptian cotton, fine French wines, symphonies and good food. He drove expensive cars, and he had personal staff members to satisfy his every personal need. He had a good life, even if he had to deal with his cold-hearted bitch of a wife to keep it and to keep his real self buried beneath a facade of a whiny hen pecked husband which had become more difficult through their years together. Tomorrow, he would be going to the task force. He would be a member of all those people who’s only job would be to find him. The irony of it was something he wished that he could share. He needed to tell someone. He rubbed his hands together again, feeling his erection straining against his zipper. He needed to find a new case study. He picked up the plastic bag that contained urine soaked jeans, opening the seal and breathing in the acrid scent. It smelt like expensive perfume to him but better. He wished he could take the time to strip down, to.
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