The louts at the bus shelter were swigging cider; smoking dope. As he made his way up the stairs, Officer Brady turned to Handsson. It could mean only one thing. Still not satisfied, he took hold of my shirt and pulled it so that the tail came away from the waistband, then he did the same thing with my vest. He hacked up a dry cough. It was he who had told dad.
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My father always got the top five stars for the deep welts on my poor bum. There was only one topic of conversation. They had experienced nothing like it before. They let him get on with it. The enormity of their plight was clear. It was like a scene from a horror movie he had once seen.