I left them on the doorstep for a good while.
That’d show them what it was like to live slow.
Then I let them in. Didn’t offer them tea.
‘Haven’t played tag since primary school’
didn’t go down well with the burly one.
Worth a try. Miserable gits, both.
I stuck my leg up on the coffee table.
Had borrowed a pair of Dad’s old flares.
Looked a right knob. But needs must.
‘Must’ve been a nasty injury, that,’
said the thin one, tapping the bandage.
I winced a bit. Always liked Drama.
He unzipped a rucksack, full of tags
for lads not going out tonight.
Lads with both legs. Ha ha ha.
‘Tag's not too tight, is it?’ said Fat Bloke.
I nearly lost it then, I’m telling you.
‘Can’t feel a thing.’ It was the truth.
‘That’ll keep you out of trouble,’ they said.
I watched them walk down the road.
That’d be Kane, then. At number 33.
I left the leg in a corner, home alone,
And practised with my crutches in the alley.
Been a while. Lump in the throat.
No one at the pub had a better story.
Still came home without a girl
but, hey. As days go, fair enough.
© Fran Hill
G4S sacks pair who tagged offender's false leg
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Fran lives in the West Midlands (UK). She teaches English in a local secondary school, writes, performs, blogs, tweets and tries to resist chocolate.
