I therefore knew Jason but we had never developed a friendship, because we had nothing in common.For example, he collected stamps, which I thought was lame. I built models, any kind, like planes or ships, which he thought was tedious. He liked tennis while I was a soccer fan. Jason listened to country-western music and I liked hip-hop.But I decided it was better to team up with someone I knew than take a chance on getting a total flake. So we ended up together, and we got along. I didn’t blast my music and he listened to his when I wasn’t around. We spoke to each-other when we had something to say, but didn’t engage in idle chit-chat.Within a few weeks after arriving we both had met and formed a distinctly different group of friends. And so the first year passed. Before the start of our second year Jason had decided to room with one of the new friends he had met. I, like an idiot, forgot to put in a request and therefore the university paired me up with someone else who hadn’t. At the end of the road we lived in, there was an old house with an even older blacksmith’s workshop in the garden facing the road. The house was known as ‘The Forge’, but it had been many years since anybody had actually worked in the blacksmith shop. Or ‘The Smithy’ as the decrepit old sign said. Old Mr Walker, who’d lived there ever since I could remember, passed away that Christmas time and for quite a few months afterwards the old house lay deserted. Then one Saturday morning I think it was, the whole street was woken up at an unearthly hour by the roar of a powerful motorcycle. I looked out of my bedroom window to see who had disturbed my slumber and saw the motorcycle parked outside the Forge house. Someone dressed all in leathers was sitting astride the machine, apparently studying the old house. I was fascinated. We didn’t live in the part of town where you expected to see ‘ton-up boys’ as my dad called them or ‘filthy rockers’ as my elder sister always referred to them, very.
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