Black Swan Green

by David Mitchell

Debby Crombie was already stroking his groin. “Nothing wee about this nipper, Thomas William Yew.” Debby Crombie unpeeled Tom Yew’s Harley-Davidson T-shirt and flung it away. His back’s glazed and muscly like Action Man’s. He’s got a blue swordfish tattooed on one shoulder. She squirmed out of her unbuttoned lavender dress. If Dawn Madden’s breasts were a pair of Danishes, Debby Crombie’s got two Space Hoppers. Each armed with a gribbly nipple. Tom Yew kissed them in turn and his saliva glistened in the April sun. I know watching was wrong but I couldn’t not. Tom Yew slipped off her red panties and stroked the cressy hair there. “If you want me to stop, Madam Crombie, you have to say now.” “Oooh, Master Yew,” she crooed, “don’t you dare.” Tom Yew got on her and sort of jiggled there and she gasped like a Chinese burn and wrapped her legs round him, froggily. Now he moved up and down, Man-from-Atlantisishly. His silver chain jiggled on his neck. Now her grubby soles met like they were praying. Now his skin was glazed in roast-pork sweat. Now she made a noise like a tortured Moomintroll. Now Tom Yew’s body jerkjerked judderily jackknifed and a noise like a ripping cable tore out of him. Once more, like he’d been booted in the balls. Her fingernails’d sunk salmony welts into his arse. Debby Crombie’s mouth made a perfect O.