The Boys

Mrs Kane was waiting at the lights, listening to some politician or other under fire.  She hated to hear people being talked over:  She was always careful never to do that, at work. She saw no value in railroading people into your own opinion.  Her kids deserved better than that; she tried to teach them think for themselves, and to argue their own views.  Otherwise what was the point?

 She was startled by the sound of children’s laughter coming from the boys walking past her car.  It seemed incongruous even if you heard it every day - out of uniform, any one of these four would have no trouble getting served down the pub.  Outside school, they would be seen as adults.  She was certain that they felt like adults. Swaggering down the street in their little gang, oozing with the confidence of youth.  We all think we’re awesome when we’re seventeen.  

  She missed it, sometimes, but at others could barely remember it.  When she could, it was often strolling down the street with her mates that came back.  Just like those boys, she had felt immortal, untouchable, and entirely free.   And now she was that stuck up teacher in the frumpy skirt.  

 The boys were loitering outside the off licence now, looking uncertain.  The car behind her sounded its horn and she realised that the lights had changed.  She cast them one final glance as she turned right.   None of them had gone inside the offy - she caught a glimpse in her rearview of tallest lad, Mark, giving it a regretful final glance as he walked away.  Then they were all behind her, and she was on her way home.  She felt herself thinking about dinner, and wine and her husband.  Gradually, she was starting to shed her work persona.  She couldn’t wait to get home to change out of this bloody skirt.   She wanted to be sexy, quirky, and informal - all the things she couldn’t be in the classroom.

Exchange

 The streets are quiet as Christie winds her way through the maze of part-dismantled stalls, towards Mik's pitch. The brisk walk and cold air have brought colour to her cheeks, though her face is concealed by the strands of long dark hair being whipped around her by the ruffling wind.  She keeps her gaze to the floor through the twists and turns of the chaotic bazaar, wary of being recognised; afraid of getting caught.

 Mik is a market-trader of the old school, a veteran sailor of the market's murky waters.His clothes and hair were the colour of dust, and his calloused, worn down fingers crept from the ragged edges of his double layered gloves: knife-torn leather over fraying wool. Five years past his prime, his skin has been worn a smooth mahogany by uneven oscillations of the seasons, and he has been feeling the tug in his shoulders more these last few months:  Loading the van no longer feels as smooth nor as effortless as it looks.  Nevertheless, Christie catches snatches of the tune he's humming to himself in satisfaction.

  He'd had a blinder of a day. Lucrative deals had been made, large sums of credits had changed hands, and the lion's share of it was even legit.  Anything you wanted, you talked to Mikky; fulfilling his contracts was almost as much a matter of honour as of lining his pockets.  Sometimes it would take a few days for him to find the right string of the web to pull, but he had more contacts than there were fish in the sea.  There was nothing he couldn't procure, given time.  

 He knew there was no risk without reward, but he kept a close eye on the line and refused to cross it without care.  Below the counter, goods changed hands in time to the whorls and eddies of supply and demand.  To Mik it felt like a purer form of trade, divorced from the metallic certainty of currency.  Trade truly flowed through the barter system, and his hands kept it moving and directed the flow.  

 The medic had given him a tall order and no mistake, but on the black market, medicine was as valuable as it was rare - Mik couldn't afford to turn it down.  He'd known from the start that the line would disappear over the horizon long before he'd secure the goods.  It was a relief to get shot of the damned thing, it had lurked like a dangerous dog in the corner of his wagon since he'd taken possession.   

 For Christie's part, it was as if the glass vials of medicine had burned their way right through to her skin.  She could feel an imprint of them above her left breast, even though they were now clutched tightly in her right hand, her knuckles clenched whitely around them.   The trader tried to wipe his hands clean against his filthy apron before grasping hers, the tips of his gloveless fingers cold against her palm, as the contraband was passed invisibly between them.

*** Redrafted 11/11/14 - I have published the original version as a comment for reference - CRR