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'Cool, man,' I said, examining her beat style. 'Straight from the fridge.'

'Don't talk to me about fridges, Forehead. Not in this weather. Two minutes outside and I can't feel my knees.'

Then we got out of the Youth Club, avoiding Mr Haigh and his pingpong table. We passed the Vicar's wife on the way out, and she gave us a Look. When we were well away from the club, we both had the giggles.

'Did you see that?' I said.

'The poor woman thinks we're on the Road to Wrack and Ruin.'

'Well, aren't we?'

'Not half!'

By the time we got to the Rialto — The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner, with Tom Courtenay — the picture had started. Neither of us was that interested in seeing it anyway. In the framed photographs outside, Tom Courtenay looked a bit too much like John the Martian and we saw enough of him at School not to need a featurelength reminder.

So, there we were, all dolled up and nowhere to go.

'I've got an idea,' said Gillian. 'We can obviously pass for over eighteen, so let's go to The Pump. I hear they have a really super jukebox. It's near where you live, isn't it?'

I didn't want to seem timid, so I agreed.

I thought we'd never be allowed in, because pubs are stricter than the Rialto about how old you are. So there wouldn't be any harm in it.

As we got near The Pump, Gillian told me to walk older.

'How do you do that?' I asked.

She demonstrated: sticking her padded chest out, pointing her chin up and adding inches to her height by keeping her legs straight and stretching her spine. I tried it, but it wasn't comfortable and got the giggles again.

Gillian was a bit annoyed, but had to giggle too.

'Something funny, girls?'

The boy who asked was outside The Pump, tying the covers on a motorcycle. He wore a black leather jacket and gauntlets. A checkered Rupert scarf flopped out from under his crash helmet.

'Only the way you look, Mr Spaceman,' said Gillian.

I was tense inside. It wasn't sensible to cheek one of the Ton-Up Boys.

He took his helmet off and wiggled his eyebrows.

'Take me to your, leader,' he said. 'I've come to Earth to harvest your girls. The women of our planet are used up, and we're searching for volunteers to replace them.'

'Good luck, chummie,' said Gillian.

'The name's Zack, not "Mr Spaceman", not "chummie".'

'Izzat so?'

'You girls have names?'

'Might do,' said Gillian.

'For instance ... ?'

Zack wasn't alone. He had a group of friends with him, lounging about outside the pub like F.M.'s gang, all in motorcycle gear. The Ton-Up Boys. There were even a couple of sharp-faced girls, in big bloke-sized jackets and spray-on jeans, ponytails tied back with pink gauze.

Zack put his helmet on his bike and took a flick-knife out of his pocket.

They're banned in School, but some older boys carry them anyway. With a smile, Zack pressed the stud and the blade shot out – only it wasn't a knife, but a comb. His dark blond hair was pressed out of shape by the helmet, and he began to sculpt a wave into it.

'Enough grease on that to fry bacon,' said Gillian.

I thought she was risking death or worse, especially when some of Zack's Boys laughed. But he just smiled, finished with his hair and put his comb away.

'How gorgeous is that, love?' he asked.

'On a scale of one to ten, about thirty below.'

'Like the weather, then. You look like you could both do with a warmup. How would you like double brandies?'

I had a precognitive vision of being very sick later.

'Are you buying, Flash?' asked Gillian.

'Might be,' he said.

'Don't believe a word Zack says,' said one of his friends, who had what seemed like a tire-mark down one cheek. 'He's always skint by Saturday night. Blows his whole wage packet on Friday's boozing.'

'That's not true. I save a ten-bob-note for emergencies, and the chilling of these angels is clearly an emergency.'

'Sum-Mooth,' chanted several of the lads.

'Don't pay any attention,'