Extract: We Pretty Pieces of Flesh by Colwill Brown

Victory

Remember when we thought Donny wut whole world? Before we knew we wa Northern, when we seemed to be central, when we carved countries out ut farmers’ fields, biking through neck-high rapeseed, cutting tracks. Stalks flattened beneath us wheels, releasing sweet smell of honey and rot, pollen dusting us skin wasp yellow. Bike chain clacking, thighs burning, daring each other to go non-handed. It warra state of mind, non- handed—you had to just let go and believe. When Coops’ chocolate concrete warra delicacy. When sex facts wa currency, dead-eyes warra language, when kicking littler kids off back seat ut bus warra career. When romance wa gerrin mashed on Smirnoff Ice on summer nights by t’canal’s stretch of still brown water, lazing ont grass int late-evening light. So late we stopped believing int creeping dusk. When it wa cheeky tinnies guzzled beneath haybale tower that loomed like a ship’s mast behind house rows, that wa shaped like a sad man staring at his outstretched feet. Time we tried climbing tut top, stalks sticking in us bras and socks, and accidentally set whole fucking thing ablaze wit flick of a half-smoked cig.

They’ll recall afternoon they wa relegated tut station platform for fifteen freezing minutes, warming their hands round a paper-cup cappuccino, waiting fut LNER express route to tek em off somewhere else, suspecting that if they stepped beyond station doors forra second they’d be asked by five blokes—and at least one bloke’d ask twice—Alreyt, love, you got 20p fut phone? No point venturing intut town centre, exploring place affectionately described by natives as “Dirty Donny,” and spitefully described by posher towns as “chav central,” “a scowl of scumbags,” “a collection of small former mining villages who won’t stop complaining about Thatcher,” or “home ut country’s worst football team.” Some folk reckon Doncaster boasts kingdom’s highest boozer-to-human ratio, but that’s an honour also claimed by residents of every lost borough in England. Any commuter foolish enough to breech station’s threshold would backstep sharpish intut concourse’s promise of elsewhere and thank fuck they dint get themsens stuck here. If trains dint have to pass through it, they’d tell themsens, Doncaster wouldn’t need to be a place at all.

They wouldn’t know about sleeping in cornfields under t’stars, nested in makeshift stalk beds, chatting till dawn. They wouldn’t know about keeping a campfire burning all night int ancient woods, or tiptoeing back int morning, dodging clumps of bluebells we couldn’t bear to trample. Or spending a weekend building thrones from smooth boulders we found ont riverbank, beside waterfall’s roar and rush. Or us three perched on us thrones—sweaty, knackered, happy—pinkie-swearing we’d always have each other’s backs.

They wouldn’t know about us parents, time they sang and hugged and cried, dancing ont sofa till four int morning, night Tony Blair’s Labour Party got elected. About hope us parents held forra fairer future: things can only get better. About all of us, how loud we laugh, how sharp we feel, how hard we love, how soft.

And they wouldn’t know about Donny’s still visible chunk of Roman fort, but to be fair, neither did we. We dint recognise eighteen-foot stretch of weathered stone for warrit wa, mossed and grassy, thicker than a body is long. We dint feel centuries beneath us chilly bum cheeks when we bought two litres of cider, spent afternoon sat on that wall gerrin pissed in us Adidas Poppers. We dint imagine soldiers in leather sandals fighting battles wi their irontipped javelins. We wa too busy fighting us own battles.

Remember when we wa so young, we dint even have run ut whole town yet, when big school warrus universe, when slightest victory med us feel invincible, like as long as we stuck together, we could tek on any fight and win—like time us PE teacher said we had to play football wit lads, even though there wa only three of us and sleet screamed across school field like a fleet of angry bees. Sight of it from window med chills run through us, even int warmth ut changing rooms. Lads’d had their growth spurt by then; they all wore shin pads and spiky football boots. We just had us Reeboks, shorts, unpadded shins, naked knees. They jeered when they heard us begging Sir to lerrus off: S’up wi yas? They said. Are you ont rag, like? But Sir wouldn’t gi us special treatment just because we wa lasses. We dint see why Sir got to decide whether we gorrus teeth kicked in. We dint understand why we weren’t allowed to say no.

We decided we’d play in goal together, three of us in a row. But when we gorrup top field, wind pelting ice pellets at us cheeks, goal hanging ovver us like a giant staple, we realised we’d volunteered oursens fut bullseye. We linked arms, connected at elbows.

Ont pitch, nineteen lads threw meaty thighs intut muck. From nowhere, a ball coming at us, white missile flying through sleet. We scattered like pigeons. Ball smacked one of us square int tit, knocked down, winded. Circle of mud on white T-shirt like a target, like a brand.

Lad who scored pulled his T-shirt ovver his face, streaked across field wi his arms outstretched like Fabrizio Ravanelli.

“DICKHEAD,” we said. Wind caught us syllables, chucked them back.

Knees grazed, stung. Elbows siren red and flayed. Pain flaring up int wind’s icy gusts. We checked us limbs for blood, searched for gashes that’d heal into scars, but lads dint gi us owt that day except knocks that’d blotch into bruises then fade. We pulled oursens together, shook off shock, locked arms. We took shallow breaths, lungs seizing int cold.

Sir blew his whistle; lads ran back down field, re- formed. At second whistle, lads weaved slowly back towards us. Their hard bodies, blank shapes int mist. We clenched, afraid of gerrin broken up again.

Lads cem close enough that we could mek out their T-shirts, streaked brown, clung wet to torsos. Wind hammered us eardrums. Their voices reached us in snatches, echoes, protesting violent tackles, bad ref calls: As if! Since when? Us silent, watching lads come. Close enough to mek out breath clouds shrouding heads.

Ball shot back and forth across pitch. Nearer it cem, more it seemed like soon we’d have to let go of each other, fend for oursens. Us goosebumped skin, cringing, waiting fut ball’s thud, fut bonebruise ache that’d follow.

Then we could mek out calves, muscles carved tight. Int heat of their coming our arms unwound, elbows freed.

Then we could mek out faces, contorted wi fury as they heaved down last twenty yards, gorrin formation like her majesty’s fighter jets. Int thunder of their feet, drumming of their spiked soles ont frozen pitch, we turned to each other.

We said, “Fuck this!”

We fiddled wit hems of us PE shirts. Then we could mek out eyes, trained on us, squinting through swarming sleet. We curled us fingers ovvert fabric’s rim. They angled a foot, took aim. We pulled up T- shirts, pulled up us bras beneath.

Our tits gleamed int sleet.

Sir’s whistle blew, long screech like an outraged bird. Ball veered, scuttered off. Lads threw up their arms: Fuck are you doing?

Sir ran towards us. “Oi, you lot, gerrinside!”

We let down us tops and walked off, arm in arm, feeling like we’d be this strong forever, like nowt could tear us apart. Before us: changing rooms, steamy warm. Behind us: whistle went, lads re-formed.