Here Are the Young Men

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A confession without confessing. Admission without consequence.

Guilty. It’s all true. We did these things.

I’m sorry.

Crucial details have been smudged: we’re sorry and we don’t want to be punished.

The boy’s name, for instance. If I told you, and you’re from Dublin, and you’re of a certain age, you’d probably remember.

I’m sorry — I mean, I want to be.

This is all true. We did these things. This is all reality.

If it’s not broken — I chanted silently in rhythm to our steps — then break it. If it’s broken, don’t fix it. If it’s fixed, break it again, break it more, wreck it. Wreck everything, and for no reason whatsoever …

We came to a stop.

Cocker drained his can of Coke and threw it on the ground. It rattled for a bit and then was still. We looked at it, the empty can. A breeze blew in across the grey stones of the beach, gusting the can a few feet along the seafront walkway.

‘Give us a light,’ I said.

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