The bus stop on has been out of use for the last five years, ever since the Laverstone Municipal Bus Company was snapped up in a corporate buy-out by Berkshire Buses, who promptly axed seven of the eleven routes. Despite the lack of an actual sign, the shelter still sees a good amount of use. It acts as a goal for the local lads playing football (or hockey, skate hockey or British Bulldog) with the street as a pitch, a meeting point for teenage youths to share their beer and cigarettes and, in desperate need, a shelter from the prying eyes of Andrea Naseby's mum.
"Is she still there?" Andrea huddled in the left corner, where a missing pane of glass had been replaced by a sheet of corrugated iron sporting the grammatically incorrect 'Mr Smailes suck cocks" (and prompting Andres to perform her first and last act of vandalism – that of adding an 's').
"Aye, with a right face on 'er an' all." Gary Trubshaw had skipped school so often the police were tempted to buy him a rope. "Mornin' Mrs. Naseby."
"Don't you mornin' me!" Angelina Naseby had a voice to match her name, in that it heralded doom. "Have you seen our Andrea?"
"Not since yesterday, Missus." Gary held up a cigarette. "Got a light?"
"I don't smoke, and neither should you. It'll stunt your growth."
"Too late for that." Gary watched her head off down the street, slippers flapping. "I'm six foot two."