The Beach House

All Anthony wanted was a better life, a change to his surroundings, he wanted to live a life of his choosing. April 17th would be the day that his wish tragically came true. My piece for the More Than This competition.


2. The Session

It all started with a phone call.


"Hey Anth, there's a session going on tonight at Micky's place," Scott said to me one Tuesday afternoon, might as well have been five in the morning. "You coming or what?"


I rolled out of bed, forgetting about the girl that I shared it with and grabbed the nearest pair of boxers. "Yeah of course. Who's Micky again?"


As I scrambled to find clean clothes Scott tried to remind me of a night out we had a couple weeks ago. All I made out was 'The Grange', 'alcopops', 'minesweeping', and 'fit sister.'


"Ah right yeah sure, I remember," I lied. "Seemed like a cool guy, text me the address in a bit and I'll pick you up around nine, I need a shit. Make sure he brings his sis." We hung up.


"Romantic way to wake up," the girl said sitting up, not much of a looker but it was better then an empty bed.


"Just Scott on the phone, asking about a session. You wanna come too s-s-s..."I struggled to find her name, smooth.




"Sophie?" I said. My thinking was that it's always good to have a back-up at events like these. Random guy, random place. It's nice to know you have the option to piss off to a room somewhere and kill some time with a girl. But by the expression on her face, that and forgetting the poor lasses name, I already knew her answer.


So I made her a cuppa, waited with her for her taxi, and like a gent waved her goodbye. I was never again going to see Sophie What's-her-name. I went back upstairs, had a shower and then crashed until I had to leave for the session, brushing a set of hair extensions out from the bed as I did.


Now, the difference between a party and a session is like the difference between having biscuits after Sunday service and a stag do in Amsterdam. A party is a fun and lively event, coupled with music and alcohol, where people have fun, play drinking games and talk. A session, on the other hand is an event where people, usually with randomers you've never met go to someone's house or flat, usually flat, and the key goal is to get fucked and fuck others. There are no pretexts, people going are going knowing what to expect, they cut out the crap and everyone gets down to business and has a good time. Sessions were vital to survive the monotonous tedium of Preston living. 




I rolled up to the address in my banged up Fiat Punto, Scott and his girlfriend sitting in the back. While she was a good looker the friendship code restricts any sexual involvement, it's best to see these girls as non entities, so not to disrupt the dynamics of the group. There is a code of conduct in groups like these, we aren't animals after all.


We entered the property, an upper story council flat off of a busy road. The place already hummed of heavy beats and laughter, and a smell of green in the air, all signs of what was meant to be a good night. Knife Party blared from a laptop on a table against a wall, a fold up sofa-bed laying opposite was already in the 'bed' position, and a top it a trio of girls were rolling tabs and passing a half empty three litre bottle of Frosty Jacks amongst themselves. The once clear-ish liquid had turned a light purple; a trick to making cheap white cider drinkable was to put black current juice in it, it didn't kill the repulsive aftertaste but it made it easier to get it down. 


A man came out from the kitchen, a can of Stella in one hand while the other shook mine furiously. This apparently was Micky, a tall well built kind of guy, short hair and tattoos, a fearsome dude if you didn't know his favourite band was Paramore. He was really just a teddy bear with a beard. The kitchen was always where most of the session took place; making drinks, rolling joints and easy food access. As usual the kitchen was already full of people, men and women all packed together, new faces and ones that brought back hazy memories stood together and mingled in the normal way. 


I left the side of Scott and made for the sofa-bed, my intention just to show the girls how to properly roll, it also gave me time to decide which one to go for, a sort of fact finding mission, or 'stock checking' as we called it. Best to make sure none have boyfriends before you try it on. 


I had just licked the Rizla paper to seal close a perfectly rolled joint when the doorbell went. 

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