Drama/creative writing

June 04, 2020 Pete G

groom - short play for radio



Desolate, windswept East coast, seagulls, crashing of waves, wind.

Beth You good? I were asked.

I’m good. Came reply.

So him, he’s outside ain’t he? Lingering. Can’t says I fancy that in a bloke but

lingered he did. And that’s how we first met. Monitoring me like some sad

stain pants Perv. He liked us young and not particularly legal.


I mean we’re easy prey, aren’t we? Alone, vulnerable, excluded as the

system demands we should. The scraping of barrels long since discarded.

Them placed miles from home. Forgot. This particular barrel were once all

pine crisp. I, like many others, fall through safety net. A private net no longer

fit fer purpose. A net offering giddy premiums fer banked out, carefree,

careless, smugged up Baby Boomers. Recall a day when security came

paedo, interest free? I don’t. Security? A word rarely seeing light of day in

yer gloss Blonde Tory Front Page LieFest. An as red walls crumbled, an Food

Banks prospered, woke millions never awoke. No son or daughter ever ad a

parent, see.


I reckon a net should catch but like the unfortunate Alice I just fell. Only my

innsy weensy rabbit hole offered up no juicy jam tarts or wicked Queen of

Hearts. No croquet wi hedgehogs neither.

Did I want the trappings? He said. The trainers ? The cash? The gear? Of

course I wanted the trainers, the cash, the gear. My personal Holy Trinity.


It were a little dented an in no way bespoke. But off we set nonetheless. Me,

in a car wi a man much older. The road where he were to take us were flat.

Right flat. Through the fuckin flat flatness Fens we drove. It were well into

winter then, an heavyweight clouds crouched as low as to be touched wi a

solitary outstretched finger. An outstretched finger that were soon to enter

my young virgin cunt an outstretched soft youth legs. A cunt yet to be

furnished wi either skin or spunk. Until now. Blood came.


Snow fell, effecting a tender biscuit tin pretty dusting. Like mums we may

have had did of a Christmas past - sprinkling their subtle touches and

flourishes onto a cake so fresh warm baked. Currants, an raisins, an Such

Glad Tidings. A sixpence to be found as once were. Innocence. A Kodak shot.

Cuddle memories. Now a different kind of shot came. Barrister. Court. Video

relay. A single descending scale in a minor key.


The bedroom were tiny. Two crushed singles together. So he could. And did.

At 14. Plasma on a cheap shit self-assemble plays 57 channels of raw

sewage, an interspersed wi im inside, a parable of home furnishings are

offered at agreeable rates. This I note each individual thrust. Cosy, easy pay

installation. Those who Black Friday passed can park their precious arses on

interest free, made to measure sofas, finding the perfect mauve luxury fer

Netflix love. Final thrust. Done.


He pulls on his boxers and goes fer a piss. Our accommodation is not

ensuite. I peer out the flock curtain windows an see grey tiles sweating cold

cobs onto rusting gutters. A magpie drinks, or pecks, or whatever magpies

do. He returns. Has had his piss an me his load. Never imagined how so

much would leave.


We have breakfast. Uncomfortable, as I’m his ‘daughter’. Braindeadblognod

Brit landlady don’t twig. We have our toast. White. Eggs. Fried. Coffee

comes in chipped mugs. Flash. He places my hand on his crotch. Nice. It



After shag an toast, hand in hand we walk on beach. Fuck, were it ever cold?

Check ten unanswered calls. ‘Ever had a bloke in your mouth?’ He asks. He

kisses. An I him back. I stare out to sea and sky. We hold.


Beaches, as I remember, were warmer back then, the time when I last sat on

a beach. Sounds of sunlight, an mum, an sis, an hugging, an all through

tanned up before September again an school. Bleached hair from rays,

stomachs filled to brim wi hotdogs, pizza an slim yellow taverna fries. Steady

wi salt mum would implore.




Back in room. Stomach now replete wi summut less appealing. I’ll take care

of you, he said. I were entered again. Soft furnishings still on offer. But not

indefinitely. Hurry.


He kips. Go back to dunes. Wind’s up. Slightly brighter. Rain due. Imagine

goldness an dolphins. Them all squeaky such, wi happy smiley teeth, leaping

an jumping, all freedom, bouncing balls on their spouty noses. Brisk. Face

ripped slight by North Sea abruptness. I wonder.


Virgin cunt and mouth misplaced. At 14. Mixed up. Warmth given I never

had. Or did. But then. Not now, when most wanted.





Youth legs open, outstretched. To repeat. Light blue latex on a lady’s hand.

Rank stale semen record extracted.


June. A different year.

Elsewhere. A different town.

Aristo types in Mozart wigs parade manilla files wrapped tight, official, in

pressed red ribbon.


Gave us name. Said I loved him. Mad. Knew other. Scared like fuck.


So I paused and looked straight into focus.


An darkness fell about me head, collapsing, suffocating, drawn, dead, past


Fancy turning tricks? A man enquired.



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