Sunday was my favourite day of the week. No school. No work. Emancipated from the rigours and routine of life, free to savour the fresh air, a chance to declutter the crap-packed rooms of my brain. Armed with my trusty Walkman—which had been dropped more times than an out of form footballer, and still played—I liked to take long solitary walks. With no destination in mind, I went wherever my legs brought me.

Sometimes I walked by the motorway, watching the steady stream of traffic whizzing by. The various colours, shapes and sizes of vehicles, on the one road. Different destinations, different journeys to be made. Around the roundabouts and through the intersections and traffic lights. Past suburban enclaves, and industrial estates. Life going round.

Other times I took the scenic route, along the old canal. On a muddy path flanked on either side by briar patches, separating the green fields with grazing livestock from the overgrown reeds poking out of the marshy bank. On occasion, glimpsing a silvery fish surfacing before disappearing and leaving behind rippling evidence of its presence.

Sometimes, I limited my wanderings to the confines of my neighbourhood. I needed to see people. People I knew by sight. Maybe, encounter Roley and his friends drinking flagons of cider by the bollards in a back lane, whenever they got bored with band practice and ventured out of their dank garage lair. Stop for a quick chat and bitch about life. And feel some semblance of linkage with my peers. Funny, even though he lived less than a quarter-of-a-mile away, I can't remember seeing him around the area. Since we became pals at school, bumping into him had become a regular occurrence. Almost as if some cosmic energy drew us together once we had made that initial connection.

And the girls. A present on the lonely eye.

Not that I had been giving much thought to girls as of late. Still, I was not immune to the charms of a coquettish smile or an adorable giggle. Nor had I completely forgotten that the quest to find the perfect girlfriend had once been paramount in my daily thoughts, a staple of my existence.

A group of girls sat in a semi-circle on the grass like an ancient tribe by the empty football pitch. I spotted Louise from work among their number.

Louise raised her head and waved enthusiastically. I responded in turn, gratified by her interest. As I debated whether to stop and say hi, a blond girl said, "That the fella you've been creaming yer knickers for?"

Louise's complexion turned a darker shade of crimson. "Shut up. I'm only mortified."

Her companion laughed. "He can't hear us—he's got the headphones in." True, but the tape was finished playing, and I hadn't switched it over.

"I don't know whatcha see in him. All skinny and twitchy," a girl in an acrylic tracksuit said, prompting an outpouring of opinions.

"He's an awful looking yoke."

"He dresses nice, though."

"I think he's gorgeous."

"Lovely little arse on him."

"Shame about the rest of him."

"I probably would, after a few vodkas."

"You'd do the elephant-man after a few vodkas."

The throaty laughter came from behind the wall as I turned onto the street. I'd always considered girls the fairer sex. But this talk sounded not too dissimilar to boys' schoolyard conversations.

I ejected the tape as a voice said, "His mate's a fine thing."

"Yer man off the telly?"

"Oh, now he's only gorgeous."

"Wha'? Would ya really?"

"My ma'd crease me if I brought a black lad home."

"Them African fellas are riddled with the AIDs."

"Really?"

"Sure, isn't that why they held that Live Aids concert." I could not believe what I was hearing. What worried me is, statistically, in five years, at least two of those girls would become mothers, perpetuating the cycle of prejudice and ignorance, infecting the minds of the next generation.

"I betcha the pair of 'em are queer for each other."

"That's disgusting."

"I'd love to see two lads getting it on."

"You're vile."

"I heard it's true."

"Don't say that." Louise's voice.

"I'm telling ya. Mandy Freeman was goin' out with that rugby player, remember? He and your fairy boyfriend went to the same school. One day, after practice, a clatter of them walked in. Caught Aaron touching himself, checking out lads showering."

"No way."

"Sounds suspect to me."

"On the bible. Mandy told me."

"Mandy Freeman is talking through her hole."

"Aw Louise, don't be getting all mad 'cause ya fancy a knob-jockey."

I punched the wall with all my force. Left traces of skin clinging to the brick.

I walked away, my head about to pop. Rage coursed through me, my entire body trembling, barely noticing the stinging pain from my raw knuckles.

Lies. Dirty, greasy lies.

Memories of that day haunted me like malevolent spectres for years. I thought I had finally exorcised them from my mind.

The incident occurred during my second year in my previous school. I sat in the shower room, eyes fixed on the floor, preoccupied. French next, right after gym class; And today was the day of our written exam. French was hands down my worst subject. I struggled to scrape a passing grade. Results carried significant weight in my house. Ever since my junior school teachers had talked up my academic potential, my parent's expectations have been sky-high. And I felt an obligation to achieve the anticipated grades. I studied until midnight, hoping what I had crammed in would be fresh in my mind today. I was stressing, searching my brain for the elusive subjunctive endings to prendre, when someone comedian said, "Oi, Col, Murphy's checking you out your arse."

I blinked, vision coming starkly back into focus, only to see some sweaty naked kid eye-balling me menacingly from across the changing room, while the others choked down their laughter.

"What're you staring at, freak?"

"A pasty-faced praying mantis-looking prick." Had I used my wits, this entire noxious episode might have been nipped in the bud instantly. Unfortunately, it only occurred to me when was I replaying the scene in my mind later on. Instead, I panicked, stuttering a protest of innocence. "I, no, I was just thinking—"

"See—he admits he was fantasizing about you, Colin." "Oho, ya better keep your head on a swivel with this one." "Here, Col, shake your bum, and I'll bet he gets a boner." "You got a stiffy, Murphy?" "That's why he always wears that towel—to hide the evidence." I sat dumbly, mouth open, choking on the chains of my inadequacy.

A couple of late-comers wandered in. "What's all the commotion?"

"We caught Murphy fiddling with himself," said a classmate, aiming a discreet wink at his fellow conspirators.

"Scumbag was watching me shower," a furious Colin, who wasn't in on the joke, said.

"You serious?"

"As cancer."

And so it started. The initial story spread like a virus through the school, mutating as it hopped from host to host. Each additional strain, becoming deadlier and more destructive. I wasn't part of any clique—not being from upper-middle-class stock and with an aversion to rugby—that could offer herd immunity to protect me. It didn't take long for the diseased lie to infect my small group of friends, altering their perceptions of me. That the tale, or its subsequent revised retelling, was flagrantly untrue mattered not a jot. It made for fantastic entertainment. Once the summer term had finished, so too, was I.

Those scurrilous rumours stalked me mercilessly around the halls all the following year, the subject of insidious innuendo and a campaign of isolation. My best friend, Andy, was the only person who stood by me. However, his personal sexual preferences had long been the topic of playground speculation. Schoolyards are not fertile ground for measured, nuanced debate. Our persistent companionship did little to help either of our cases. That Halloween—at a party I had not been invited to—Andy nabbed himself a girlfriend. The sister of one of our chief antagonists, which helped Andy gain acceptance into their social circle. Our friendship was reduced to the odd reluctant nod when we passed in the hall.

I never bore Andy any ill will. I blamed the cretins who started the nonsense for giggles. And their acolytes who spread malicious misinformation. I blamed my so-called friends for swallowing the lie whole.

For the longest time, I blamed myself.

As I dodged dog-shit on the pavement, above my head a jumbo jet roared through the blue, leaving a white contrail extending across the entire sky like a vaporous wound.