Lizzie

I never set out to be a shopkeeper but I had to admit that, after a couple of months solo for uncle Mo, I was actually coming to enjoy it. Selling newspapers and cigs, crisps and cans of pop is surely not glamorous, but it put money in my pocket, gave me my very own little flat - at nineteen, that's not bad at all - and, best of all, got me away from my father's constant scrutiny and interminable disapproval.

I was a disappointment to him, no doubt. I'd managed a year of college before crashing out - "deferring for a year", I think was the term, with the optimistic idea that I'd take a year out and then go back - and the thought of me crawling back home to face my father's wrath and my mother's entreaties was so utterly appalling that I was in real danger of skating off the rails entirely before uncle Mo stepped in with a compromise.

Uncle Mo's my mother's brother. He and my father don't see eye to eye on many things, and perhaps because of that I'd always taken to him. Dad was an "upstanding member of the community" - a dentist by profession, a regular at the mosque and the Rotary Club and all that middle-class suburban crap - whereas uncle Mo was, well, a bit of this and a bit of that. Fingers in lots of pies, uncle Mo had - landlord, shopowner, businessman - rather like a Del Boy Trotter with a beard and a kaftan. Except uncle Mo was a lot smarter than Del Boy - small-town shopkeeper with an affable manner and a friendly smile might be the image he projected, but he had a sharp eye, an even sharper brain, and he and drove a huge, black Range Rover.

I'm sure he took great delight in offering a compromise at least partly to spite his enormous snob of a brother-in-law, but mostly, I must be fair, it was to help his sister and his sister-son.

"Business is business, boy," he said genially after he'd negotiated the truce for us, "but family is family. Never forget that." I thought it made him sound a bit like a Mafia don, but for all his apparent ducking and diving and deal-making uncle Mo was straight up. I like him enormously, and I was hugely grateful to him for his offer.

"Not at all, boy," he said as he drove me out of town, a small case of clothes and my second-hand XBox in the boot. He almost always called me "boy", but he did it with a twinkle in his eye. "What am I going to do, see my sister unhappy because her son and her husband are fighting all the time? No. But remember -" and here the hard-nosed businessman fixed me with a sharp look "- you take care of my business, I take care of you. But if you screw it up like you did college -" I started to protest, but he raised a hand from the steering wheel to forestall me. "Don't bother - you think I don't know who to ask about my nephew and his drinking and fornicating? If you screw up, then nephew or no, words shall be had. Understand?"

That was a phrase of his - "words shall be had" - which was wonderfully vague and rather unnerving at the same time. I was coming to understand that nobody jerked uncle Mo around, at least not more than once. How the hell he knew about my wild, very un-Muslim, year in college I couldn't fathom, but clearly he did. Perhaps his offer was also his part in getting me back on the rails. I'd already vowed to give up the drinking; giving up chasing girls was going to be harder, but a berth out in the 'burbs was probably less temptation than staying near the fleshpots of the city.

"Yes, uncle Mo," I said, meekly. "And thanks again, really. I don't know what..."

A raised hand again, but this time it was the beaming, affable uncle Mo.

"We'll say no more." He glanced sideways at me and his eyes were sparkling. "You're a fine boy, Imran," he said, grinning. "You remind me of me."

And so I found myself ensconced in the little one-bedroom flat above the classic "little Pakistani shop" on the high street of one of the sleepy dormitory towns on the fringes of the city. Town was probably a stretch, too; big village might be a better description. I spent a month learning the ropes, partly supervised by uncle Mo but more often by Rafiq, a taciturn second cousin of my uncle's with bad teeth and terrible breath. "Pay attention to Rafiq," uncle Mo had instructed. "Stinks like a pig, I know, but knows almost as much about running a shop as I do." He did, too, and I discovered that there was more to it than I'd expected, and that uncle Mo expected me to pick it up damn quick.

But I applied myself, getting quickly used to the long hours and dealing with the old guys and school kids who formed the core of the shop's customer base. After five weeks, Rafiq disappeared and uncle Mo handed me the shop keys. "I'll drop in from time to time, but I think you got the hang of it. Phone me if you get any messing from the suppliers - that son of an owl Royce needs watching - but I think you'll do fine. And phone your mother! Every day!"

And with that, he was off, and I was the live-above-the-shop manager of the Paper Shop on the High Street. Open seven days, seven till seven, except Sunday mornings and Wednesday afternoons. Bloody hard work at lunchtime and school home-time when the kids swarmed in, but other times so quiet I could stand at the door with a coffee or a Coke and watch the small-town world go by. I'd feared I'd get bored living in such a sleepy little place after my wild year at college in the city, but I found it strangely restful. I think uncle Mo was smart; I think he recognised that I needed a little time and space to grow up a bit before I gave college, or whatever might take its place, another go. I think he was right.

Whatever the cod-philosophical life lessons, I discovered I quite liked being a small-town shopkeeper. Oddly, I found the most entertaining part to be dealing with the swarms of school kids who descended, twice a day, for their calorific fixes of junk snacks. They were primary-age, from St Margaret's Primary just over the river; it was the older ones who came into the shop, of course, the year sixes and sevens, and after a few early bouts of boundary-pushing and discovering how cheeky they could be to the newbie in Mr Khan's shop (Mr Khan, note, not Mohammed or Mo) we settled into a pretty happy pattern. It helped that a certain group of lads discovered early on - not for any particular reason - that I was both a black belt in taekwondo and a pretty decent medium-pace seam bowler. Martial arts are always cool for young lads, and cricket was important around here.

So it was "hi Imran" here and "hey Imran" there - Imran, you'll note, not Mr Sharif; I clearly lacked uncle Mo's gravitas, despite my black belt - and rarely did anyone try to lift anything, and there were only a few who did, anyway, and I soon learned which kids to look out for. The council estate on the edge of town was fine by most measures, but there's always a few. Danny Grant was one, nasty little bugger; and Janey Hill, a foster-kid, I learned, who was lovely until she wasn't, when whatever lurked in her past came bursting back into the present. And there was Lizzie Shaw.

I think Lizzie was about as new in town as I was. She'd moved recently into a council house with her dad, a single parent, mother dead in a traffic accident. I learned this later, of course, along with the detail that her mother had died when she'd totalled the car that he should've been driving. He'd been even more legless than she and had escaped with cuts and bruises and a broken finger; she'd gone through the windscreen with no seat belt. Lizzie had been seven at the time, left alone at home while her parents drove to a drinking club. How she'd stayed out of care I wasn't clear, but she had, somehow, and she and her dad got re-housed here, much to the consternation of the local busybodies.

Lizzie gravitated to Janey Hill, naturally enough perhaps, but also unfortunately, for the two of them formed one of those fuck-the-world partnerships that girls of a certain age and level of insecurity seem to form, and swaggered and snickered their way to and from school, causing low-grade trouble and giving me a headache when they came into the shop.

Lizzie's first words to me, I recall, were "Are you a Paki?" with a smug grin on her face, as if no-one had ever thought of this bon mot before. "No love," I replied, "I'm from Leeds." She'd sniggered at that and given me a saucy backward glance as she and Janey left as ostentatiously as they could manage. I remember thinking she was a cute kid, but with a serious attitude problem.

Still, no big drama. The one time I caught her trying to lift a can of Sprite without paying I simply asked her politely to put it back. I watched her measure the distance to the door and shook my head. "If I have to chase you, you know I'll catch you, love, so put it back, OK?"

"You wanna chase me - what, you some kind of perv? Fuckin' Paki perv!" she raised her voice, hoping for wider attention but I just stood watching her calmly. Eventually: "Didn't fuckin want it anyway," she said, throwing the can onto the counter and bolting for the door. She paused on the threshold and turned to shout "Paki pervert!" at me, before disappearing. The older lady who was the only other person in the shop at the time, a Mrs Simpson, I think, hurried over, all "shocking-behaviour-isn't-it-terrible-these-estate-children" and all, but I just shrugged.

The girl stayed away for a couple of days after that. The next time she came in she was with Janey. Lizzie made a big show of ignoring me; Janey paid for the bags of sweets and Sprite. I didn't mention the earlier incident.

Small-town life, then, with its slow pace and its dramas-that-aren't, and the sad little undercurrent of casual racism that's so depressing to hear from the mouths of youngsters.

If the incident of the Sprite was just Lizzie testing her boundaries, the next time we spoke had a slightly more desperate edge, and got me thinking. It was around four on a Thursday, school out and the traffic down to a trickle, when I heard a commotion outside. The Paper Shop is set back from the High Street by a little paved area, a parking bay, really, for deliveries. I glanced through the front window and there was a group of four or five school kids surrounding a girl who, as I peered a little more closely, I recognised as Lizzie. Voices were raised; Lizzie's was high, with an edge in it. Quickly, I stepped to the door.

"Give us it back, that's my phone!" yelled one of the kids, a boy of about nine, looking flushed and angry. He was confronting Lizzie, his fists balled at his side. Lizzie was snarling back. The other kids, all boys, were definitely on the side of the angry lad.

"Fuck off! I found it!" shouted Lizzie, something clutched to her chest.

"You liar! You never! You stole it out of my coat!" yelled the boy, backed up by a "Yeah, I saw her!" from one of the others. Another boy stepped forward and reached out, making Lizzie twist away, hissing.

"S'mine, I found it!" she snarled.

"You're a lying bitch Lizzie Shaw!" said the first boy.

"Hey, hey, what's going on?" I said, stepping out. "Let's calm it down, yeah?"

The angry boy spun round. "She stole my phone!" he said accusingly, jabbing his finger towards Lizzie who was looking more and more like a cornered alley cat. Her eyes were darting around the crowd of boys and now looked daggers towards me.

I turned to regard her calmly. "Lizzie," I asked, "did you take the phone?"

She didn't answer, just glared sullenly.

"Lizzie," I said patiently, "come on, if it belongs to the boy you give it back now and we can all go home, OK?"

She crouched, eyes flickering around, and then, with a robust shout of "Fuck off the lot of you!" she threw the phone high over our heads and ran.

Medium-pace seam - and not a bad outfielder, me. I dived up and to my right, took it one handed, and braced myself as well as I could for a rolling landing on the concrete. Jarred my shoulder, banged my knee and scraped the back of my hand, but I rolled into a sitting position with the boy's phone safely held.

"Howzat," I grimaced, rubbing my shoulder. "Here y'go, buddy. Just keep an eye on it, OK?"

The boy and his friends were full of admiration and thanks. "That was cool!" was the verdict from one of them as they took their leave, and I thought, well, there's some more free marketing for the Paper Shop, can't be bad for business, that. And yet as I walked back into the shop I couldn't help glancing back the way Lizzie Shaw had run. Spirit, I thought, and courage, one against six and fuck-you-all. Nicking the kid's phone really was pretty shit, but I couldn't but help admire her for it just a little bit.

A few days later Lizzie was in the shop again with Janey. She came up to the counter, her whole face set at defiance, chin up, dark green eyes blazing, and thumped down the jumbo bag of sweets. I looked at her steadily and wondered whether to say anything - but instead a gave a half smile and a little shake of my head. "Fifty-six pee, Lizzie," I said.

The next thing happened the very next day, and it was - unsettling. It was round-about four when I heard the sounds of shouts and screams from the lane that runs along the side of the shop. At the back of the shop is a stream that trickles behind the properties this side of the High Street and joins the river a little further down. It's shallow and muddy, more a moving puddle than a stream, but there's a footbridge over it, just a couple of planks, that joins the lane to a path on the other side that a good number of the kids use as a shortcut from that side of town to school. It's one of the reasons the Paper Shop does good trade. Anyway, the shouts and screams - kids' voices - were coming from that direction, and they sounded a bit more serious than the usual mucking about. I stepped into the shop doorway to take a look. The lane slopes down beside the paved bit in front of the shop; there's a wall, but it only comes half-way out from shop because the drop to the lane isn't that big. Up from the lane came three boys, scrambling onto the paved area, laughing and yelling.

"Fuckin' slag!" shouted one; Danny Grant, it was, the number one toerag of St Margaret's Primary School. He was clutching a bundle of clothing, and what it was became apparent as a girl came shooting along the lane and scrambled up in pursuit. It was Lizzie, of course, but what was a little different was that she was naked to the waist. Danny Grant brandished the garments he was holding - Lizzie's school blouse and sweatshirt - and hooted at her.

"Give us a nice eyeful, Lizzie, you fuckin' slag!"

Lizzie had stopped, panting, eyes blazing, pale, thin chest exposed - and so help me God I couldn't stop myself from noticing the soft, gentle first swellings of her breasts bulging behind each nipple. I blinked for a second, disorientated, then Janey Hill scrambled up beside Lizzie and the two of them confronted the three boys. Janey was in her school shirt; I noticed one of the other boys also had a sweatshirt in his hand.

"Nice tits!" hooted Danny Grant again, then suddenly noticed me watching.

"Fuck!" he yelped, somewhat gratifyingly, and turned tail with his mates. They shot off onto the High Street; the two bundles of clothes came flying through the air as they disappeared. Lizzie leaped forward, stumbled and went down on one knee with a sob. Janey scrambled forward to retrieve the clothes before they blew onto the road. It was all over very quickly. I took a step forward, then stopped. Lizzie had risen and straightened. Her face was red and glistening with tears. She snatched her blouse and sweatshirt from Janey's fingers, turning away from the road and at that point seeing me staring.

Her face lit up in surprise, swiftly followed by a flare of anger.

"You wanna look too?" she yelled, spreading her arms wide. "'Ere, then, 'ave a good look!"

I turned at once and went back into the shop. I stood with my back to the window, my hands on the counter, and listened as the two girls disappeared again down the lane. My hands trembled on the newspapers laid out on the counter. I could feel the burning in my cheeks. Shame. Shame, pure and simple. "Nice tits!" Danny Grant's words echoed around my head; the thoughts came unasked and unwanted into my head: yes, yes they were.

(the first soft swellings behind the)

Stop it! Get the fuck out of my head!

(gently bulging, puffy nipples of her)

Fuck OFF! Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!

(nice tits. Cute girl, really pretty)

FUCK OFF!

That night I woke in the early hours with a cooling wet stain in my boxers. Been a while since I'd had a wet dream; I couldn't quite remember... As I lay there, staring at the ceiling, a chill ran down my spine: the fuzzy dream-memory of a small, sweet, soft nipple between my lips... No no no. Fuck off. Fuck off. I will not go there. Fuck OFF!

I lay, sweating, sleepless, dizzy, brain whirring, until the alarm jerked me fully awake at six.

Lizzie didn't come into the shop that day. Thank God.

The next time I saw her it was a Saturday morning, in similar circumstances - she was in bother - but with a very different kind of outcome. It was quiet and I was taking the opportunity to restock the biscuit shelves when the front door crashed open, its little bell jangling like a mad thing, and Lizzie Shaw came flying through, dodged neatly past me and disappeared around the side of the central shelves. I'd just about straightened up with a "What the..." on my lips when some hulking teenager came tanking up to the open doorway and stumbled to a halt.

"Fuckin' little bitch!" he yelled, his spotty face contorted in serious anger. Without a thought, I stepped in front of him. He, also perhaps without a thought but certainly without thinking, took a swing at me.

One of the problems of being a black-belt in situations like this is not the reacting - that's automatic - but the tempering of your reaction so you don't punch someone's nose right through the back of their head. I blocked his ugly great haymaker in a casual way that deflected his knuckles into the shelf, and stepped into him, my other hand in his face. I didn't bother with the wrist lock, remembered not to push my fingers into his eyes, and just shoved him back, quite gently, by the face. I stepped after him as he stumbled out of the shop, just about keeping his feet, yelping over his bleeding knuckles.

I stared at him calmly, arms folded. "Just what the hell," I asked evenly, "do you think you're doing, son?"

He was about sixteen, a thoroughly ugly-looking representative of the species "teenage boy", all greasy black hair and scowling features.

"Look what you done!" he squawked. I just stared at him. "That little bitch got it coming," he spluttered. I held up a hand to interrupt.

"How old are you, son?" I asked, not interested in the answer. "How old is she? I repeat: what the hell do you think you're doing?"

"She and her fuckin' slag mate been taking the piss..." he went on, not meeting my gaze now. He sucked his knuckles accusingly. I raised my hand again.

"You chase a ten-year-old girl, threatening violence, and you take a swing at me?" I said, incredulity in my voice. "I tell you what, son, you'd better just make yourself scarce now. I've got no beef with you, but we're talking threatening behaviour and assault, not kids squabbling, yeah? You want me to hold you here till the coppers arrive?"

He looked up, angry eyes flickering between me and the shop doorway behind me. He started to speak, thought better of it, muttered under his breath and turned away, sucking his knuckles.

"And don't think you can pick this up later," I advised his retreating back. "She's just a young kid, and you're not. If I hear you've been giving her grief, you and I will have words, and so will the coppers."

"What," he shouted, from a safe distance, "she your little girlfriend then? Fuckin' pedo!" With that smart rejoinder he turned and scampered off - or rather shambled off at high speed. I watched him disappear down the High Street, then turned back into the shop.

Lizzie was watching from around the corner of the central shelves. There was relief, humour, mischief and embarrassment all jostling for attention in her face. I looked at her, my eyebrows raised.

"And that was about...?"

Embarrassment won. She flushed, looked away, looked down. "He's a prick," she mumbled. "Davey Collins."

"The prick bit I got," I said drily. She glanced at me and gave a quick little grin. It struck me that that was probably the first time I'd seen her smile genuinely - not as a smug snicker or forced laugh with Janey or some of the other kids, but an actual smile. It suited her far better than her habitual scowl. But it was fleeting. She looked down again.

"Yeah... Um, thanks, Mr... Imran."

"No problem, Lizzie," I replied. "Look, I don't think he'll give you any trouble but if he does..." I left the sentence unfinished. She looked up again, a flash of genuine gratitude in her eyes. Again, it changed her whole face; highlighted her prettiness...

"Thanks," she mumbled. Then, "Sorry." And, "I better..."

I let her slip past me and turned to watch her from the door. She looked back. "Really, thanks. And sorry," she said, then disappeared onto the lane.

I somehow got the impression that what she was apologising for wasn't just the fracas with Davey Collins.

Uncle Mo dropped by that afternoon, partly one of his flying check-ups, partly to drop off some stock. He expressed satisfaction over the state of the accounts (I did a bank drop-off two or three times a week), commended me on the neat and tidy state of the shop, and asked me slantendicular how I was coping with some of the "problem kids" on my beat. Long ears, has my uncle Mo. I grinned and told him, so far, so good. He chuckled and said that's what he'd heard, slapped me on the back, peeled off five twenty-pound notes from a roll in his pocket - "worker's bonus," he winked - and dashed off again.

I shut up at seven and treated myself to a slap-up dinner at the Taj Mahal up the High Street, spending some of uncle Mo's bonus. I got a discount, too, from Ali the proprietor - me being uncle Mo's nephew, and all, you see. It was only later, lying stuffed and content on the sofa in my little flat, did I really think back to the morning. Lizzie - the difference in her, in her face, her eyes, her smile, the way she spoke... and Davey Collins's departing words: "fuckin' pedo!"

I asked myself what I was feeling, but I didn't seem able to answer.

So I sat up far too late playing Call of Duty far too aggressively.

Sunday morning I slept in until after ten, then pottered about rather aimlessly until gone eleven when I forced myself out to the small back yard to do a quick restock of "bulky non-perishables" that uncle Mo kept in a shed; most of it seemed to be toilet rolls. I was just locking up the shed and contemplating opening up in a little while when I heard a typical kids' commotion from over by the little footbridge over the stream. I was pretty used to kids' commotions by now, but I'd only just understood that I'd noticed this one because I'd heard Lizzie Shaw's voice when there was a scream - hers - and a splash and the sound of running feet receding down the path beyond the stream.

I stuck my head through the back gate in time to see a small crowd of kids disappearing up the little wooded "nature trail" - and Lizzie, rolling onto her side in the cold, muddy shallows of the stream, red in the face with anger and humiliation.

Half a dozen strides had me out of the gate and crouching by the bedraggled girl, offering her a hand. As soon as she saw me she gave a low moan, as if she were ashamed somehow that I'd seen her in such a state. I ignored that, of course, and hauled her to her feet out of the water. She was pretty well soaked through. She mumbled something and was trying to take back the small, wet hand I was still holding but I shook my head.

"Don't be daft. You're soaked. What you gonna do, jog home dripping wet and freezing to death? Come on, into the shop."

I dropped her hand then, rather self-consciously - well, I'd meant what I said but I didn't want to be seen kidnapping her or... or something.

She looked so miserable, hair half-plastered with mud, clothes dripping, that I held out my hand again. She didn't take it, but she did shuffle past me through the gate into the back yard of the shop. I followed, closing the gate and leading her into the little back storeroom-cum-office. I indicated the stairs up to the flat, and led the way. She hesitated, still on the verge of bolting, I could tell, but, eventually, warily, she followed.

"OK, Lizzie: shower's there. Hang on, I'll find you a towel, then I'll go put the gas fire on in the living room -" I waved around the corner of the short hallway to the living room-cum-kitchenette "- and you can hang your clothes up to dry. If you want," I added hastily - I wasn't sure why. "Do you drink tea? I'll make us a brew - erm, downstairs, on the, in the, with the downstairs kettle, not the kitchen - I'll leave you, not disturb you in the... In the... I mean, obviously, I'll be downstairs, OK...?"

In the Name of God, I was babbling like an idiot! I ducked into the bedroom, fished a big bath towel out of the cupboard, practically threw it at the girl standing dripping in the hall and waved her into the little shower room.

"The lock's on the, um, on the, erm, door there."

Where the fuck else would the lock be? Idiot!

I hurried through to the living room and turned the gas fire on, stood the clothes drier in front of it and beat a deliberately noisy retreat downstairs, whereupon I stood in the office and slapped myself pretty hard, and repeatedly, on the forehead. What a twat! God, the Compassionate, the Merciful, save me from being a total twat! I heard the shower turn on, took several deep breaths, then went through to open the shop.

Sunday afternoon's usually pretty quiet and today fitted the pattern, for which I was truly grateful. I was sitting chewing my nails and berating myself once more for behaving like a truly enormous dick when Lizzie's voice from the back corner made me jump so much I literally almost fell off my stool.

"Hello?" she called, softly, with none of the usual braggadocio or sarcasm. "Mr... Imran?"

"Wh... Yeah... Yes, hello, um Lizzie?" No, the fucking Queen of Sheba; who else, you dick? "Er, yeah, you, er, you OK?"

She appeared around the corner of the shelves and my heart did a strange kind of stop-start thing. She was wearing my dressing gown, a fluffy dark blue thing that came to my knees but practically trailed on the floor on her.

"I, um, found this. Is it OK...? It's very cosy..."

"Yeah. Yeah! Sure, no bother! Good, great. You, er, you warmer, yeah?"

She nodded, brushing her wet hair back from her eyes, and smiled shyly.

"Yes, thanks," she said. "I... You did mention tea...?"

Fuck, I'd forgotten all about the tea.

"Sure! I'll be right... Ah, hang on a sec." I stumbled to my feet, turned the door lock with a snick and quickly hung the "Back in a Mo" sign on the door's glass pane. I stopped, noticing for the first time what uncle Mo had done there - I even smiled and wagged my finger at it - then went through to the back, giving Lizzie as much space as I possibly could as I squeezed past with a mumbled apology. She smiled again.

Good God above she had a lovely smile.

I made tea for us and we perched on stools in the back, me with an eye on the door. We didn't speak; she seemed happy enough to sit, snuggled in my dressing gown (yow!), hands curled around a mug of tea, her eyes fixed principally on its contents, but glancing up occasionally to offer me a little smile of thanks. Her toenails were painted red, chipped here and there, but somehow all the cuter for that.

I fought a tremendous urge to go to her and take her in my arms and hold her tight and stroke her hair and tell her everything was going to be all right from now on.

We finished our tea in a silence that I really can describe as "companionable". She slipped off the stool with a sigh and another lovely smile, and indicated the stairs.

"I'll..."

"Sure, sure," I replied quickly. "Sure. Ah, hope your clothes are dry. Well, drier. Well, they couldn't be wetter, could they. Unless you left them in the shower, of course." Oh shut up you moron! "I'll, er, I'll wait here. Downstairs. In the shop."

She giggled. It was like a little fairy bell ringing. She disappeared upstairs with a little wave and I hit myself again. On the forehead. Hard.

I went through and reopened the shop. A little while later Lizzie reappeared, still a little damp but much improved. She came through to the counter and indicated the door.

"I better go." She stopped and looked down, blushing. "Look." She looked up. "Thanks. Again. You -" She stopped, looking down again, blushing even harder. "Thanks for being so nice," she blurted out, then made a grab for the door and was out and gone, the bell jingling behind her.

I sat, a little dazed, with two things bouncing back and forth in my head: Lizzie Shaw, blushing - and giggling.

Oh, and her little chipped-red toenails. Yeah, them too.

Well, I had plenty to think about that evening. I made myself dinner, slowly, carefully even; everything seemed to have slowed as my mind ground its way through the thoughts and feelings the last week had thrown up. There was bad in there, very bad, perhaps, but there was good, too: wonderful goodness, exhilarating goodness. The key question I kept returning to, no matter how hard I tried to chase it away: was I developing a crush on a ten-year-old girl?

Oh no, said the corner of my mind I was trying not to listen too, not a crush, no. No, crushes are for kids. Crushes are cute and innocent. No, what you mean is "am I sexually attracted to a ten-year-old-girl?"

Stop asking that question. Stop it. The answer is

(yes)

no! Absolutely not!

(liar)

Hell's teeth, had I not vowed to give up the drinking and go straight, I'd've been under the bloody table.

Another night, another wet dream, another self-denial as I lay in the dark of morning with the evidence still damp, cooling against my thigh. Aw, fuck...

It was a couple of days later that I saw her again. She came into the shop with Janey, and there was no sign at all of the blushing, giggling girl who'd sat and drunk tea with me in companionable silence. The two of them were as brash and brassy as ever, gathering a pile of junk sweets, crisps and energy drinks between them, sniggering and glancing my way every now and then. A chill went through me at the thought that Lizzie had shared her stream-rescue experience with Janey and the two of them were now laughing at me.

I was wooden when they came up to the counter, cold still from head to toe. Lizzie thumped the basket down almost defiantly and I rang it all through in silence while Janey stuffed it all into a bag.

"Eight pounds twenty-eight," I said at last, forcing myself to smile. Lizzie brandished a twenty-pound note at me, and from the way she did it I knew at once that it wasn't hers. Found, or maybe stolen?

"You're flush today, Lizzie," I said, hoping it sounded nonchalant enough. Janey snickered. Lizzie bristled at once.

"It's mine!" she said heatedly. "What you sayin'? You sayin' it's not?"

"Whoa!" I raised a hand in conciliation. She stared at me belligerently, and with a certain degree of discomfort. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Janey tense. I didn't speak, just shook my head slowly and shrugged, and counted out her change. Janey turned and jangled out of the shop. Lizzie grabbed the change and was just about to follow when I said, softly enough, I hope, "Lizzie, I'm not your enemy, OK?"

She paused, momentarily, then opened the door. She was almost through it when she glanced back and flashed me the briefest of smiles - short, tight, but it touched her eyes. Then she was gone.

The following week I took a break. Uncle Mo came in on Saturday afternoon, proclaimed himself pleased with my work, proud to call me a nephew, and said I deserved a break. Right enough, I'd been going a couple of months without any real days off; there are probably laws against that sort of thing, but I can't say it had bothered me. Still, a week off was nice. I went back home for a few days until I'd had enough of my mother fussing over me and my father forcing himself to be civil, then I took myself off to stay with a college mate in the city for a day or two. That was fun, although I found I couldn't quite tune into the pub/club scene the way I used to. Sitting drinking orange juice and trying very hard not to talk girls into bed was a strain, especially when your mates are all getting tanked. I kept off the booze, though, although despite my good intentions, I failed on the girl front by the second night. Harry and I finished up back at his place with a couple of extremely friendly fun-seeking young ladies from the nursing college, and I discovered I was randy as fuck. I think the petitely cute Denise, all slim hips and tight boobs, got more than she bargained for, but I don't think she minded. She was yawning hugely at our slightly awkward four-way breakfast, but with deep, smug contentment in eyes that followed me everywhere. Her companion - can't remember her name - looked pleased for her and jealous at the same time. Gotta step up, Harry mate.

Denise gave me her number. She was really quite lovely, but I didn't call her. In fact, although I hid it well, I hope, I was pretty rattled: a memory, of doing her from behind in the middle of the night, she moaning like a banshee, and me, just before I came, me thinking: Lizzie... At least I hope I thought it. I mean, I hope I didn't say it. I mean, I hope I didn't actually think it at all... I mean... Aw, fuck, what did I mean?

I came back to the shop a day early, thanked the sullen Rafiq, and immersed myself in stock taking and shelf stacking.

And the very next day it was Imran the shining knight again.

It was just past six, a slow evening, and I was flicking idly through Instagram when I heard the recognisable sound of kids making a commotion from down by the stream. I paid it no heed until, a couple of minutes later, the door jangles and a forlorn apparition stepped in.

She was wearing school uniform, although initially it was hard to tell because she was dusted pretty comprehensively in - flour? Flour it was. And dripping onto her shoulders, mussed into her hair, eggs. Lizzie, of course, Lizzie Shaw, egged and floured. I took in her appearance in a glance, opened my mouth to say something - and she burst into tears. Tough as teak, sassy, brassy Lizzie Shaw, suddenly howling like a kid. Dammit, she was just a kid though! Tough as you like, no kid's going take something like this in their stride.

I was round the counter at once. I steered her inside, closed the door and locked it, hanging up the "Closed" sign at once.

"In the Name, Lizzie," I murmured. "Come on." Gently I nudged her through the shop and upstairs. She left a little trail of white splatters. Her tears flowed inconsolably. A flash of desire to hurt whomever had done this to her came and went; practicalities were more important.

"OK, Lizzie," I said as we got to the top of the stairs. "Shower. In you go. Put your clothes outside the door; I'll get them in the machine."

I pushed her gently into the little shower room and went back downstairs until I heard the shower running. I returned noisily and found a sad little pile of bedraggled clothes outside the shower room door. I scooped them up and took them into the kitchenette. It was only as I was loading them in did I realise that her pants were among them.

I laid them carefully on my knee as I slowly placed the other garments - skirt, socks, shirt, school sweatshirt - into the washing machine. They lay there on my knee, plain, white cotton pants with a little yellow bow at the front of the waistband and an Asda label at the back. Plain, white cotton pants, girl, age 7-11.

They were still warm, just a little. Still warm from her -

No. No, stop right there.

I held them up, just to take a closer look at the label. For the washing instructions.

No. You don't need to hold them that close to you face. No. Stop it. In fact, you don't need to wash them at all - what's she going to wear when she comes out of the shower? Put them back outside the door, along with your dressing gown and a t-shirt or something.

And why the fuck - why the FUCK - do you have an erection? Why the FUCK?

I held her pants to my face and, help me God, I breathed in the scent of them before I crammed them into the machine, slammed the door and poured in the powder. I spilled a fair amount; my hands were shaking.

Quick programme. On.

Hands still shaking I stumbled through to my bedroom and fished a pair of drawstring cotton shorts out of a drawer, along with the smallest sweatshirt I had, and bundled them up with my dressing gown. I laid them outside the shower room door and called through to

(the naked young girl in your bathroom)

her, then beat a retreat downstairs.

This time I remembered to make a pot of tea. I sat there on the high stool next to the cluttered shelves and stared across the top of my tea mug and tried to forget about

(the warmth, the smell of her pants - the smell of her)

what I'd just done. Oh, God in Heaven, how was I going to be able to face her? She would see it all over my face...

She appeared a few minutes later, swamped in my dressing gown again, looking small and fragile.

"Hey," I said gently, "better?"

She smiled. It was lovely. She nodded. "Yes. Thanks - Imran."

I smiled back. She was just a kid. I waved at the teapot. "Cuppa?"

We sat on the two stools and she peered into her mug and told me about the incident - Danny Grant, of course, and his arsehole little mates. Part of me was relieved it hadn't been down to Davey Collins. I told her I'd put her clothes in to wash; maybe another half hour, and then we'd have to dry them by the fire for an hour or so.

"You should, ah, phone your dad, I guess," I said, watching her carefully. She stared into her mug and shook her head.

"He don't get in till late. Won't know. Don't c-" She changed direction, but I heard it "- don't mind if I stay out..." She looked up, eyes wide and clear.

"I tell you what, then. Shop's closed, and I don't know about you but I'm hungry. How about I give you a bit of dinner while your clothes dry? You like curry?"

She considered this, her head slightly to one side in a very cute gesture. "Think so. I've 'ad curry sauce from chippy - is it like that." I couldn't help grinning.

"Well, sort of. I hope mine's better, though. It's been marinading overnight. Chicken, spices - let's see, yeah?"

I nodded upstairs. "Come on, you go make yourself at home, stick the telly on, I'll get cooking."

And that's what we did. The kitchenette and living room are all one, really, so it was easy to chat as I prepared the meat and sauce and rice. I found her strangely easy to talk to, and I think she felt the same. A lot of the time she didn't seem like a kid - she had a wisdom, or a world-weariness, perhaps, beyond her years. She sat sideways on the sofa, feet up, hugging her knees, chatting quietly across the breakfast counter, and it was then I learned a little about her background and her father, and the death of her mother. She seemed very matter-of-fact the way she talked about that, but I wondered. Her father she spoke of with a barely concealed contempt, and I understood then that that was a difficult subject for her. She clearly loved him, but also hated him at the same time.

She was a tough kid, for sure. Feisty, spirited - and, yes, pretty, especially when she lost that habitual sneer she affected in wider company. Defensive, of course, when in reality she was a frail little girl in need of... love? Yes, of course... But what did *I* think I meant by that? And she - older eyes, wiser eyes than her ten years looked out from that pale, pretty face...

Or maybe I was just making shit up.

Talking to her confused me, in all sorts of ways. I tried to be polite, and concentrated on the cooking. The washing machine finished and I asked her to hang her things up on the clothes horse in front of the gas fire. I watched out of the corner of my eye as she hung her pants up; if she thought it weird that I'd washed them, if she thought it odd that I'd handled them... Well, she gave no sign - but then, why would she? She was a kid.

We sat side on to each other at the little dining table in the corner of the room. She poked the food warily, tried it thoughtfully, and pronounced it not bad. I thanked her gravely and we ate and chatted about telly and inconsequential stuff. She was surprised I wasn't drinking beer or wine, so I told her a little about me, how I used to drink a lot but that I was trying to be good, partly for religious reasons, partly just for me. She eyed me carefully as I said this.

"I like that," she said, and gave me a shy, brilliant smile. "Don't like people who drink."

You don't like the drunks your folks became, honey, I thought as I smiled back. I looked at her as often as I could as we ate - and that was quite a lot, actually - and the more I did the more confused I became. Swamped by my dressing gown, damp hair spread around her shoulders to dry, she was really quite lovely. She had a delicate, heart-shaped face with classic high cheekbones, and a slight dimple to her chin which I just loved; her green eyes were dark but clear, and she had a slight, perfect gap between her two front teeth. She was slender, from what I'd seen - and then the memory of her naked chest came crashing unbidden into my mind, followed quickly by the sense of her warm pants between my fingers - and me fucking Denise again and again, each time with Lizzie Shaw's face in my mind...

"You OK?" She sounded concerned.

"Uh, yeah, uh, yeah, uh, why?"

She frowned. "You kinda zoned out, went a bit weird..."

Internally I shook myself and tried to grin, but her frown stayed. She looked at me for a few moments, then dropped her fork with a clatter.

"'Ere, you're not one of them Paki pedos? Make friends with girls and then pass 'em around their mates?"

I just blinked. What?

She was pushing her chair back.

"Is that why you got me up here? You wanna get me feelin' all safe then take me round to some flat so you mates can..."

A stone settled slowly on my chest. She was rising to her feet, face flushing, eyes flashing. Woodenly I raised a hand. My voice was hollow.

"You think that, you'd better just go."

She paused, confused by my tone, but I just indicated the door with a jerk of my thumb.

"Get dressed, Lizzie, and just go. Use the back door; shop's locked up."

I sat, rooted to my chair, as she bundled up her clothes - still damp, no doubt - and stumbled through to the shower room. She looked back but I neither moved nor spoke; my heart seemed to be filling slowly up with ash.

After a while I heard her fumbling with the back door, then it banged open. I presume she figured out the back gate, because when I forced myself downstairs to lock the back door again, she'd gone.

I didn't sleep, just lay in the cold darkness, the stone weighing on my chest, my mind blank.

The next day was grey, and cold, and the world seemed remote, and the stone grew heavier as the day went on. I closed early again, ate something I don't remember, mechanically, and sat on the sofa, staring out across the darkening room, out through the dark window until I woke shivering in the early hours and crawled into bed.

The next day was grey and cold and remote, too. And the one after that.

That evening, though, loading the washing machine I felt a flash of anger and the fog in my brain lifted a little. Fucking hell! Little - little cow. How dare she? Who did she think I was? Who the fuck did she think *she* was? Show her some kindness and she thinks you want to fuck her and share her with some imaginary paedophile ring. Fuck that! Little cow. Little *bitch*.

Well, said a voice, it's not quite untrue, is it? Not the sharing bit, sure, but...

Fuck OFF! Fuck YOU!

God forgive me, but right then I wanted - needed - a drink. We sold beer in the shop, for the unbelievers of course. I'd worried that I'd find it a temptation but it'd been remarkably easy to ignore. But not now, not tonight.

Rain was hammering on the little skylight above the stairs as I padded slowly down, the fridge in the back corner of the shop my target. I turned the light on to avoid walking into a shelf and giving myself a shitload of extra work in the morning, and I was standing in front of the tall chiller cabinet deciding on my poison when the knock on the shop door made me jump, literally. Shaitan! My heart lurched and I had to steady myself. The knock came again. I walked around the central shelf to the front door. It was too dark outside, and too bright in here to see anyone silhouetted.

"We're closed!" I called.

There was a pause.

"Imran...?"

I hesitated, but only for a second, and then I'd unlocked, unbolted and thrown open the door. All the misery of our last words blew away like smoke before a hurricane.

Because she was there, shivering in the driving rain. No coat, just t-shirt and leggings. Soaked.

I held out my hand. Hers was cold, so cold. I drew her inside, my arm around her trembling shoulders and kicked the door closed as I led her into the back and up the stairs. I steered her into the shower room; she didn't lock the door, and it didn't seem at all important. I found a towel and a long t-shirt and hung them next to my dressing gown. She was a slender blur outlined against the steamy shower screen. I gathered her clothes up and, once again, hung them in front of the fire to dry.

I made hot chocolate, and when she appeared in the hallway entrance I handed it to her at once.

"Warmer?" I asked. She looked small and pale. "A... a bit," she said, and shivered.

I led her to the sofa and snuggled her down. I sat next to her, my arm around her shoulders, and cuddled her to me.

"Drink while it's hot," I said softly, and we sat there for quite a while, in silence, comfortably intimate. I turned the TV on and flicked through until I found a nature programme - moving wallpaper. I noticed I was stroking her thin shoulder with my thumb. I noticed that she hadn't commented. Her head was snuggled down in the crook of my shoulder, against my chest. Her hair smelled clean. I squeezed her with my arm and she nestled that little bit closer, sipping her hot chocolate. I closed my eyes and breathed in the scent of her. She smelled of me, my shampoo, my shower gel - of me, and of her. Her hair brushed my lips - or perhaps it was the other way around...

"Imran...?"

Her voice startled me out of some kind of reverie. I'd been drifting... And as she spoke my name again I realised with sudden, sickening horror that I had a very visible hardon. I froze, then made a strange, strangled kind of noise.

"Oh God... Lizzie, I... It... it's not... I'm... Look, I'm sor-"

"It's OK." Her voice was quiet. She snuggled into me. "I don't mind."

I stayed there, tense, heart thumping, Lizzie cuddled up to me, and eventually my hardon subsided. I felt her yawn against me and realised with a start that it was pushing eleven o'clock.

"Lizzie, it's late! I should be getting you home! Your dad will -"

"No," she said, that same quiet voice, but firm. "He locked me out. He's drunk." Her voice caught on the last word. I didn't know what to say, so I just held her while I thought.

"You... OK, is there anyone...? Anywhere...?" But I knew the answers, and her silence confirmed them. A surge of - sympathy? pity? Love? - washed over me and I kissed the top of her head.

"OK, Lizzie. You need to get to bed. Good job it's Saturday. Gimme a minute and I'll straighten out my bed for you."

I disengaged myself, with enormous reluctance, and went through to the bedroom. I quickly changed the sheet, reckoned the duvet would just have to do, and dug out my sleeping bag from the bottom of the wardrobe.

She was reclining sleepily on the sofa when I returned. I dropped the sleeping bag and nipped downstairs - one handy thing about living above a little convenience store is that your guests are never short of a toothbrush.

I thought I was going to have to wake her when I got back, but she was still awake. I sent her through to the shower room to brush her teeth, then conducted her through to the bedroom. I decided the t-shirt she was in was probably long enough to be a decent nightdress, but perhaps she wanted something else.

"You, uh, you want me to fetch your, er, your pants? They're probably dry by now..."

She shook her head and smiled sleepily. She wriggled out of my dressing gown, hopped into bed and snuggled down. I tucked her in - I really did - and bent to kiss her forehead.

"Imran," she whispered as I did. I paused, looking down into those clear, green eyes. "Thank you," she whispered, and leaned up a little to kiss my cheek. Her lips were warm and soft, and smelled of toothpaste with a hint of chocolate.

"Thank you," she murmured again, and, "goodnight..." She turned over a little, her breathing already deepening, and I rose and left.

My sofa's pretty old and rather squishy, but I slept OK, eventually. I lay in my sleeping bag for an hour and more, wondering just what the bloody hell was going on, my dick hard for most of that time. I didn't tell it to fuck off, just pondered...

I dreamed of her, of course, dreamed of moonlight flooding through the window of my little flat, illuminating her vividly as she stood proud and naked in the silver glow, head back, eyes blazing, hand on hip, the smooth cleft between her thighs... She reached out a hand towards me, a smile playing across her lips...

Her hand was on my shoulder. It was dark, and chilly. She was kneeling, ghostly in my white t-shirt, shaking me awake. As I blinked she rose and held out her hand.

"Please..." she said.

"Lizzie..." I began but she shook her head vigorously, angrily, and gestured towards me again.

I'd wriggled my way half out of the sleeping bag before I became conscious of my hardon. I stopped but she frowned in impatience, and shivered.

I rose, and she took my hand and led me through to the bedroom. The bed was cold but for a small, girl-shaped oasis of warmth. I lay down as if in a dream, wrapped in a sense of unreality as she slipped in and snuggled down next to me. She lay with her back to me, cuddling in, wriggling back into my embrace. Not quite believing it all, I put my arm around her and she held it against her chest. Her bottom nestled back against my - oh God, against my hardon! I tried to pull away, pull my hips back in some odd contortion but her bottom followed. I took a deep breath and lay still, and she nestled her small, cool bottom against me as if fitting my hardon carefully between her buttocks. She squeezed my arm and gave a long, soft, sleepy sigh.

It was very, very difficult to believe what was happening.

I lay tense for a while, barely breathing, waiting for - what? Waiting for her to wake from her sleepwalk and realise where she was? Waiting for her to come to her senses and scream and shout and bring the police crashing through the front door? But no. Her breathing was soft and lovely, her slim, slight body warm now against me. My hand lay across her chest, across the soft first swelling of her breast. Her bottom nestled against my penis. This was all wrong, and at the same time so, so right.

Slowly I relaxed. It took a little longer for my erection to subside, but slowly, slowly I drifted off to sleep with a warm and beautiful ten-year-old in my arms.

Sunday. No early alarm. I drifted awake out of the most wonderful, worryingly erotic dream, to discover that most of it was true. I was on my back and snuggled into my side, breathing lightly, small hand on my chest, was the girl I'd been dreaming about. The young girl. The ten-year-old. The primary-school girl I seemed to be in bed with.

I'm going to Hell, I thought. She stirred in the crook of my arm and automatically I stroked the smooth, warm cotton I felt move against my fingers. My t-shirt, against - against her bottom.

My fingers sprang back, but my penis had already swollen harder at the touch.

I'm going to Hell, I thought again, letting my hand cup the small, round, perfect shape through the cotton of my t-shirt. But right now, I think I am in Paradise.

I laid my hand across hers on my chest, and stroked her little bottom gently until her eyes flickered slowly open.

I sensed a moment of where-the-Hell-am-I, then she closed her eyes again with a soft "mmmh" sound, and snuggled her head against my chest.

We lay like that for a good while, she dozing comfortably, me cupping and stroking her bottom. I behaved; my urge to peel back the t-shirt and feel her smooth warm skin beneath my fingers was all but overwhelming, but I resisted. That might have been a step beyond. Or maybe not.

She stirred a little and opened her eyes again, shifting her head to look up at me. She smiled sleepily. I smiled back.

"Morning," I murmured, reaching up to brush her long brown hair back from her face.

"Mmmh," she said again through softly smiling lips. "What a nice way to wake up."

I stroked her hair, marvelling at how utterly beautiful she looked, fresh from sleep. I felt her fingers stir on my chest.

"Sleep OK?" I asked, which was pretty lame under the circumstances. She nodded against my chest, with a soft "Mmh-hmm."

"How about a cup of - oh my God!"

She giggled. "Although this did keep poking me," she said, her fingers exploring slowly under the duvet.

"You..." I began, but I had nowhere to go with whatever I was trying to say, and no power to do it anyway. Her fingers lay lightly on the erection in my shorts, probing curiously from end to end.

"Mmmh," she murmured, "yes, you. You kept poking me in the night, didn't you? Naughty thing." She was talking to my penis. She giggled again. "But I guess it's a compliment, innit?" She cupped her fingers over it in a half-grasp and I stopped breathing.

She glanced up. "You OK, Imran?" she asked innocently.

Everyone fights temptation for as long as they can - or as long as they want to - and everyone, eventually, gives in.

I growled, a long low sound, then rolled quickly, surprising her, making her squeal delightfully. I loomed over her on hands and knees, straddling her, my face a few inches from hers. Her eyes were shining - hints of nervousness with major overtones of mischief and a deep, almost hidden desire to be cherished. I lowered myself slowly, letting her feel a little weight - and she crowed with delight, flinging her arms around my back and her legs over mine. She hung beneath me, almost, our noses touching, our eyes searching each others - and she kissed me first.

It was a schoolgirl peck. Well, it was a little more - wanted to be a little more - but it was a schoolgirl's for all that. I returned it, more slowly, guiding her, letting her feel her way into a kiss that wasn't a schoolgirl's. We hovered like that, lips caressing each others, eyes meeting, exploring, enquiring, confirming, gleaming, flashing. I rolled again, and she squealed again, and laughed, and she was on top of me, her slender thighs smooth against my hips, her pretty, pretty face flushed and smiling above me. Her crotch rested on the hard spike of my penis.

I took hold of her arms, levered her upright and, in one smooth motion, pulled my t-shirt off. Then, without pause, I grabbed hold of my other t-shirt, the one she was wearing, and did the same. She raised her arms, I drew it off, dropped it behind her, and she was naked.

I leaned back, drinking her in, the slight, slender, boyish frame, the just-swelling nipples, her smooth, tight belly and the pale, bare bulge of her pubic mound pressed against my belly. She leaned forward but I caught her hands gently, kept her upright while I stared, unashamedly, avidly, at the fabulous young body straddling me.

"Damn..." I breathed, "you are gorgeous..."

She smiled, beautifully. I leaned forward, her hands still entwined in mine, and kissed her nipple. Just like I had in my dreams, night after night - a soft, slow kiss, my lips encircling her. She sprang to a hard little point at once.

"Oh my God," she cried softly, and with that all thoughts of the outside world were dispelled.

We spent the morning in bed, embracing, kissing, cuddling, hugging, touching, stroking. We wrestled and laughed and teased and held each other tight. I was more forward than her, of course, more adventurous, determined to explore the glories of her young body as far as she would let me - which was pretty damn far. Over the morning I kissed every inch of her, each finger, each toe and everything in between.

"Oh my God," she whispered, over and over again, in a child's voice shot through with a woman's ache, and every time she did my penis surged. Her nipples were gloriously sensitive - "Don't, that's... oooh, careful... ohh... oh my God, yes..." - the very edge of newly erogenous - just the right amount of suction - just there: "Oh my GOD!" Her belly, smooth and pale and concave, fluttered when I kissed it, moving slowly lower and lower; "Oh my God...!"

Part of me - a distant, utterly irrelevant part - despaired at the surge of lust I felt as I kissed the smooth, soft, hairless mound of her child's pussy for the first time. She was still very much a girl - perfectly-shaped outer lips, no inner labia showing, a little dimple, the first small hints of a clitoral hood developing - and so help me God it gave me such a huge thrill to kiss her there, press my lips to hers, taste her sweet youth.

I say hairless; she had the faintest, finest hint of pubic hair just showing, the spray of a delicate fern on her fabulous mound. I spent a long time kissing her between her legs; she spread her thighs for me with no prompting and I kissed slowly up and down the insides of each, she trembling and clutching at my head; "Oh my GOD...!"

She smelled fresh, clean, young - of shower gel and sleep and the very first awakenings, the very first hints, of sex. I kissed her pussy and she was moist, and my penis nearly burst.

I laid her on her tummy and kissed her shoulders, lifting her soft, brown hair away from the nape of her neck to linger there. "Oh my God," she murmured into the pillow, her back arching as I kissed down her spine. Her bottom was toned, tight, smooth, perfect. I kissed her buttocks, one by one, inch by inch, and when I lifted her hips she responded, her face buried in the pillow, embarrassed perhaps at the wantonness that made her lift her bottom into the air for me.

She didn't say oh my God when I kissed her between her buttocks; she just moaned long and low and soft into the pillow.

I kissed her anus and her perineum lovingly, and the beautiful curving cleft of her pussy again, and her whole body quivered and she gasped a woman-child's gasp, and her little fists ground themselves into the pillow. I travelled down the backs of her thighs, letting her subside onto the bed again; her knees, her calves, the ticklish soles of her feet - she giggled and squirmed at that - and sucked her chipped-red toes one by one.

I managed to keep my boxers on as long as I could, soaked in front, but by the time I'd finished sucking her toes my hands were trembling and my body aching for her touch. I stripped, naked at last, and lay next to her. She rolled and I pulled her close, kissing her, holding her slight, tight body to mine. Her fingers sought me out; the first time they closed around my penis I nearly lost it. I let her explore me with her fingers, tracing patterns in my chest hair, holding and squeezing my penis, kissing my belly.

"Is that... spunk?" she asked softly at the slow oozing from my penis.

"It's... well, we call it precum," I murmured, my fingers in her hair. "It's, well, it's slippy, it's for lubrication... Oh my God...!"

"Mm, it *is* slippy isn't it...?"

She knelt across my thighs, playing with me in the most incredible way.

"Is it always this hard when you - when you do this?"

"Ye-eah... Although... I don't think I've ever been quite as hard as this..."

Her bowed head addressed my penis, a hard red spike in her small, pale hands, her face hidden by a curtain of hair.

"I done this before, when I was younger, with a boy. He was only twelve though, had a little dick. Hard, though. Like yours. 'Cept yours is a lot bigger. And hairier..."

I just lay, in bliss, as she toyed gently with the slick red head of my penis.

"He... He made me kiss it. I didn't want to but he made me put it in my mouth."

I lay very still.

"Didn't taste of much; like a finger, I suppose. Like sucking your thumb."

Her hair hid her face but I didn't need to see her to know what she did next.

"Oh my God...!" I breathed, and again: "Oh my God...!"

"Yours tastes - salty? Kinda... kinda nice."

"Oh my God, Lizzie..."

"... Is that... Am I doing it right?"

"Oh my God, Lizzie... That's... Sweetheart..."

"... Tell me if I'm not doing it right..."

"Just... perfect, sweetheart... Oh God, just perfect..."

I'd had a good few blowjobs in my nineteen years, but nothing, nothing, nothing that came close to this - not then, not since.

Her mouth was warm, hesitant, uncertain. She had no technique, no nuance. But she was ten years old and was sucking my dick because she wanted to. I lay in ecstasy until I felt dangerously close to startling the hell out of her, then I leaned up and lifted her head. She was flushed, and her eyes were filled with a kid's need for approval, for praise. I had no words, just pulled her to me, kissed her, hard and deep, making her gasp into my open mouth, then held her tight against my chest, my hand in her hair. She sighed deeply and nestled against me, spread-eagled, my penis hard and wet between her thighs.

We were lovers all that long, slow Sunday morning that passed oh too quickly, me and my naughty schoolgirl Lizzie Shaw. I gave her her first proper orgasm that morning; she clung to me, arms around my neck, her breathing high and fast as I circled and circled her little dimple, bringing her shuddering and gasping to a climax that shocked and scared and delighted her all at once. She hugged me so tight after that, and her eyes glowed with something new as she lay on her side and regarded me carefully.

She went down on me again, and soon I turned her around so that her perfect bottom was in my face. We laughed and giggled at the naughtiness of it all; she called me a dirty bastard when I stuck my finger in her bum but pushed her hips back anyway. She sucked my dick and I licked her between her legs and we could've spent all day just wallowing in each others bodies.

She finished me late morning, a perfect way to end. I'd been edging for a long time, of course, letting her tease and push me but not letting her finish me. I was crazy-horny, my penis red and swollen like never before, and I was lying flat, hands behind my head while she snuggled down beside me, stroking me steadily up and down. She'd hit that moment of rhythm that's just right, so right that you no longer want to stop it building and building and building until...

"Lizzie..." I groaned in warning, "I'm gonna cum real soon..."

"Cum...?" She paused to look at me and I groaned again.

"Don't stop! Yeah, cum, spunk... Oh my God...!"

A delighted grin spread across her face. She redoubled her wanking and oh my God it felt so damn good! I arched my back.

"Watch out...!" I groaned, my balls churning past the point of no return. "Oh my God, Lizzie...!"

She squealed in surprise and delight as I came, shooting a curling, looping ribbon three feet straight up. It splattered all over her hand and my crotch as the second and third gouts spurted high. She wanked me harder, the minx, laughing in fascination as my penis jerked its fabulous, ecstatic ejaculation under her virgin touch. I was covered; so was her hand and half her arm.

I lay back, groaning, my penis still twitching and oozing as she laid it down against my belly. She wiped the back of her hand on me, letting the thick white slime gloop off her fingers, and snuggled down at my side. I hugged her to me as the thunder of my orgasm rolled and echoed away into the distance.

"Wow!" I could sense her grinning. "That was fun!"

We lay together, naked, young man and schoolgirl, in a bed smelling of sex, and it felt just perfect.

Forcing myself up and out of bed was almost too much. "Lizzie, I gotta get cleaned up, open the shop - and you gotta get home! Your dad will -"

She waved angrily at me. "Don't! Not after... Just, just don't. I'll..." She sat up, hugging her knees. "I'll..."

I sat beside her, drawing her to me, holding her.

"Lizzie, you got me whenever you need, OK? We're friends, OK? And we can be boyfriend and girlfriend, have some fun, yeah? Although we gotta keep that quiet, OK? But you need anything, you ask, yeah? You just ask."

I turned her pretty face toward me, held it with a finger on her chin. She looked up after only a short pause.

"Anything, OK?" I said. We held each others gazes for a long time. Then she nodded. I kissed her.

"OK. But we better get going. Come on!"

And that was how I started "going out" with Lizzie Shaw. Tearaway Lizzie Shaw. Troublesome Lizzie Shaw from the wrong side of town. Sweet, beautiful Lizzie Shaw.

Of course, in "going out" together we couldn't go out, couldn't be seen together. How we hid it I don't really know - there is a God, of course, and perhaps He smiles on love. It wasn't just naughty fun - it was plenty of that, of course - but there was something else there. Lizzie wanted fun, wanted to play at being a woman, being a wanton, but she wanted to be loved in other ways, too. Having stepped over the line I wanted her like no-one else, her slim, young girl's body, her flashing eyes and her high, childish giggle when she made me cum, but I wanted to protect her from the world, her drunken father - herself. I think all that adds up to love somewhere, and I think it kept us safe.

There were things I'd noticed, of course, from the first time I'd seen her naked - the bruises on her arms, her back - fingermarks, and fists. A cold anger rose in me the first time I asked her about them: she waved them away with a shrug and a little laugh that was hollow, and desperate. "Just my dad," she said, trying to make light of. "When he's... Anyway, what you makin' for dinner?"

"Everything OK, Lizzie?" I asked carefully.

"Sure!" she said. "Fine. Look, don't..." She shook her head angrily, then forced brightness back into her voice. "C'mon, I'm starvin'." Her eyes were pleading.

Cold anger. I could hurt him, her drunken bullying bastard of a father, hurt him a lot, hurt him without leaving a mark if I wanted to. If she wanted me to. Just say the word, Lizzie, and he'll never fucking touch you again.

I opened my mouth to ask, but something told me, no, leave it. It was clear this was not something she wanted to bring into our relationship, our thing. The bruises, life with a drunk for a father, the love-hate, the anguish, the despair - that was somewhere else, not part of what she wanted - needed - from me. I was her escape.

Her escape. Every few nights I would close the shop and she would appear quietly at the back door. I'd make her dinner and we'd snuggle up on the sofa and watch movies, and we'd cuddle and goose and tease and kiss and lose our clothes. She developed a smugness in making me cum with her hands and her mouth. She was leery of letting me cum in her mouth, but she loved sucking me off, watching me writhe and squirm, putty in her hands. It was on our fourth meeting I gave her an orgasm from just oral sex, and that made *me* smug - that slender young body shuddering, fists clenched, eyes closed, face flushed - "Oh my GOD!" - as I sucked her sweet, sweet pussy with my tongue tickling the little nub of her clitoris.

It was a week after that that she asked me to make love to her "properly".

She was staying over. Her dad was - well, I wasn't sure, and she wasn't clear - away or drunk or something; she didn't say and didn't care to say. It was only the second time she'd stayed and I'd made a special dinner in celebration - almost like we were a regular couple and this was an anniversary of some kind.

We were on the sofa, cuddled up, and I was stroking her hair and kissing it gently and getting very interested when she said, "Imran?"

Something in her tone made me pause.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"I want..." she began, then started again. "I want you to..."

A felt an inkling, but stayed still and silent. She made a little noise of annoyance at herself.

"I want to feel... I want to fuck," she finished, blurting the words out. She looked up into my eyes. "I want you to fuck me, take my cherry. I want to give it to you. You're..." She stopped and looked down.

"I love you," she muttered.

I held her quietly for a minute or two, stroking her hair, kissing her gently.

"You sure, Lizzie?" I asked softly. "You're, well, very young and..."

"Yes," she hissed fiercely. "I want it to be you."

I hugged her tighter, and after a little while I rose and helped her up and led her through into the bedroom. I undressed her, then me; I was already erect, of course, as I laid her on the bed. I went down on her, kissing and licking her, while I considered the realities. Whether it was right or not wasn't the issue - she wanted me to fuck her, and oh yes indeed I wanted to fuck her too. No, would it work, and would it hurt her were the questions in my head. I didn't have any KY or anything like that; natural lube is what it would have to be. Nor did I have any condoms.

I kissed her inner thigh, her smooth, clear skin, and rose above her.

"OK?" I asked. She nodded, flushed, determination in her eyes.

I nudged her with my erection, smearing a bead of precum into the soft, beautiful cleft between her pussy lips. It was moist there; me - and her.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," I murmured. She bit her lip. I took hold of myself, positioned, nudged again, and pushed.

I slid easily between her lips and nudged the tight opening to her vagina. She was swollen there, young, but ready. I pushed again. Movement. Her breathing quickened but she didn't speak. Then the resistance of her hymen, a counterpressure to mine. She was young; would it hurt when it tore? Should I stop?

But she spoke, a low, hoarse whisper. "Go on, don't stop." Her eyes glowed in the dim light.

I thought I heard her hymen part, although it was covered by her sharp "Ohh! Oww!" I stopped but she whispered angrily "Don't stop! Nnnh..."

I bent to kiss her but she was too intent on the spear between her legs, transfixing her, impaling her on the very edge of womanhood.

I let my weight settle. She was tight - oh my God she was so beautifully tight! - but open, open to me. Slowly, I penetrated her, so much love mingling with delighted lust. Tears sparkled at the corners of her eyes but her arms were around my back pulling me down, pulling me onto her, pulling me into her.

"Oh my God..." she hissed, spreading her thighs wide for me. I was in her, my penis inside her, her tight, muscular warmth a glorious sheath around me. She pulled me tighter and I settled more until it felt like my whole penis lay buried in snug ecstasy in her sweet, sweet young vagina.

"Oh Lizzie..." I murmured.

"Oh my God," she breathed, a slow grin beginning to spread across her face. Our eyes met, and hers were blazing. "Oh my God!"

I rested on my elbows and we kissed sweetly and softly as I lay on her, in her, rocking oh so gently. We were fucking, for-real fucking, and it was the sweetest thing ever.

She wanted me to stay, to finish in her, but I could tell she was sore. I eased out of her after a while; she groaned softly but I kissed her quiet. There was blood on my penis, though less than I'd feared, and a little on the sheet. I lay beside her and caught her to me and held her against me, a slim, slight, trembling and deliriously happy young girl.

I suggested we share a shower, small though it was, and I cleaned and soaped her gently from head to foot. She was alive, her face just one huge grin; she laughed and kissed me and soaped my belly and washed my penis with a lascivious delight, wanking me mercilessly as I leaned against the tiles groaning. I took her to bed again after that, the awesomely sweet intensity of our taking of her virginity replaced by the throaty laughter of young lust. Her vagina was tender still; we tacitly agreed not to fuck again so instead I kissed and licked her sweet, bare pussy, her little girlish clit and her pretty pink anus until she writhed in ecstasy and shuddered to a beautiful, beautiful orgasm. She sucked and wanked me; we kissed with dirty passion, our hands all over each other.

We didn't fuck again that time, but high on the hormones of her triumph she was as wanton as ever and made me cum three times in all: once all over the bed, wanking me off from behind laughing lewdly as I moaned and shot ropes across the sheets; once all over her chest and belly as I straddled her and she jerked me hard to a gloriously messy finish; and lastly, deliciously, into her mouth.

We'd woken early, me hard, she still high on hormones. Before I was even properly awake she'd climbed onto me, sixty-nine, pressing her gorgeously night-scented bottom into my still-sleepy face, and taken my erection into her mouth. Her bum smelled of last night's sex and I lapped her eagerly. I was expecting a slow, pleasant start to the morning, some cuddling and petting and inconsequential chat, and it was only after a few minutes I noticed the urgency of her mouth and her hand. Another minute and it was clear that she was on a mission; I licked her pussy and her perineum and kissed her bum, trying to keep up, but she had only one aim in mind. Pretty soon she had me bucking my hips, practically fucking her mouth - I couldn't help it - with my balls throbbing and my penis surging. I warned her, panting and gasping, that I was near but she sucked harder, her mouth avid, her breath snorting softly through her nose.

"Oh my GOD!"

She was still sucking me as I came, sucking the semen straight out of my balls, wanking and sucking me as I ejaculated, shuddering and gasping, into her mouth. She sucked it all, swallowing greedily as fast as I filled her mouth. She carried on sucking me for a minute after I'd finished, drawing every last drop from my aching balls as I lay, my face pressed into her bum, panting softly. Eventually she rolled off, then returned right way up, grinning into my face.

"There," she said smugly. "I've had *my* breakfast."

The next time she came over we fucked again, properly, her on top, inching her way down onto my erection, her slender young body poised above me, her school uniform lying next to the tube of KY Jelly on the sofa beside us. The lube was perfect for us, and oh my God how tight, how hot her vagina was! She braced her hands on my shoulders and fucked me, grinning, biting her lip as she rode me. She wanted me to cum in her but I still wasn't sure; I pulled out at the last second, squirting right up her belly and splattering onto mine. I sucked her off after that, bringing her to another sweet oral orgasm, that all-over shuddering that sent thrills right through me.

Four months in all, the sweetest of my life then and since. She turned eleven during that time, and insisted for a birthday present that I fuck her and cum inside her. I did, my love and lust for her overriding my caution, and she cried when she felt me erupt inside her, tears running down her cheeks. I held her tight, concerned, kissed her, but she laughed and cried and told me how happy she was, how she'd never been happy before she met me, how I made her feel real and loved and wanted and beautiful.

And she was. Oh so beautiful. Gone was the edge, the spite, the rage at the world, not only when she was with me but out there, too, out in the real world. She carried a calm with her now, a new confidence, a - it's not too strong a word - a serenity. When Janey Hill lost it with her foster mother and was moved overnight, gone from the village, gone from Lizzie's life, I thought she'd take it hard. Six months ago she would have probably retreated, hissing and spitting at the world without her partner in crime, but not now. Now she was sad for Janey, and she held me tight as we talked about it on the sofa, but she was OK. Lizzie Shaw was OK with the world.

A week went by. I hadn't seen her, which was unusual, and I was repacking the crisp shelves after the after-school rush when a boy came in. I recognised him vaguely, then twigged: it was the kid whose phone I'd caught at slip after Lizzie threw it at him. I nodded agreeably to him. "Alright." He smiled back and went to pick a can of Fanta from the fridge.

I was behind the counter when he arrived. He paid and I was handing him his change when a thought struck.

"Thanks. Say, you haven't seen, uh, Lizzie Shaw about this week have you? She's usually kicking about. She OK?"

I don't know whether he thought my question unusual but his answer put all thoughts of subterfuge out of my mind. He shrugged.

"She's gone. Care, I think. Her dad topped himself, I heard. They say Social took her away the other day, kicking and screaming." He wrinkled his nose, oblivious to my thunderstruck expression. "She always was a nutter; nasty little cow."

"No. No she wasn't," I said faintly but he didn't hear above the jangling of the shop bell. I stared after him, not seeing him, not seeing the door, not seeing anything.

Gone? Care? Her dad...? But she was... Just a week ago, just a week, she'd been here, happy, sexy, smiling, laughing... Can't be right. Must be mistaken...

But I knew. She'd gone. I found myself in the doorway, gazing out at the street, a few passers by. Gone.

"Oh my God..." was all I could think to say. But there was no-one there to hear.