"Are you fucking stupid?" David asked.

"Not at all," the kid replied. "There must be some driving force behind what you're doing. So I ask again. Is it that you don't want to fit in, or simply that others won't allow you into their groups?"

With his gun still trained on the youngster, David wondered if he was being set up here. He checked up and down the alleyway, but couldn't see anything suspicious. "I don't know what gay-boy college you come from, mate, but when someone sticks a gun in your face, he's not after a conversation."

"Oh, I'm not that naïve," the kid said. "I know what's going on here. I'm just curious, that's all."

David paused for a second, and then shook his head. "You want to know if I have a driving force?" He chuckled coldly. "Yeah, it's like a voice in my head. Right now it's telling me if I don't get a fix, I'll be screaming the walls down in my bed-sit tonight. It's telling me I'll believe rats and cockroaches are eating me alive. It's telling me you're made of money, and, whatever happens, you will give me your fucking wallet, even if I have to pump your face full of bullets. Get it?"

To David's bemusement, the kid's expression seemed to register pleasure at his words, and almost looked understanding.

He must be on something, David decided.

"It makes perfect sense now," the kid said. "Drug addiction is one of the loneliest cliques a man can belong to. It's only fully appreciated by other junkies. Different social groups find it hard to understand and accept, as with any other prejudice."

David cocked his gun and took a step closer. "I'm not fucking joking! Give me your wallet."

"I have no wallet to give you," the kid replied. "So I guess I'm in a bit of a predicament."

"Empty your pockets – on the floor. Now!"

"No."

The kid went down easily under the butt of David's gun. Looking up from the floor, he met David's eyes expectantly, blood creeping down his face and matting his hair. "I suppose this is it, then," he whispered.

Continuing to glance down the alleyway, David shuffled nervously from foot-to-foot. The shakes were beginning now, and this wasn't helping. "What's fucking wrong with you?" he snarled through gritted teeth. "Just give me what you've got."

Very calmly, the kid replied, "I've heard it said that every person can intellectualise the differences between us all. But at the same time that we never truly learn to accept them. Don't you think that's a shame?"

"You need to stop talking, mate, and start emptying your pockets."

"I can't," the kid said, amiably, almost kindly. "I don't fit into your clique, or anyone else's. I have my own driving force. And to be honest, it's much more interesting than taking orders from a junky who'll probably be dead by the end of the year, anyway."

The crack of David's gun echoed down the alleyway.

.