The Casual Vacancy

VIII


Up in the little white house that sat high above the town, Simon Price fretted and brooded. Days passed. The accusatory post had vanished from the message boards, but Simon remained paralysed. To withdraw his candidacy might seem like an admission of guilt. The police had not come knocking about the computer; Simon half regretted throwing it off the old bridge now. On the other hand, he could not decide whether he had imagined a knowing grin from the man behind the till when he handed over his credit card in the garage at the foot of the hill. There was a lot of talk about redundancies at work, and Simon was still afraid of the contents of that post coming to the bosses’ ears, that they might save themselves redundancy pay by sacking himself, Jim and Tommy.

Andrew watched and waited, losing hope every day. He had tried to show the world what his father was, and the world, it seemed, had merely shrugged. Andrew had imagined that someone from the printworks or the council would rise up and tell Simon firmly, ‘no’; that he was not fit to set himself up in competition with other people, that he was unsuitable and sub-standard, and must not disgrace himself or his family. Yet nothing had happened, except that Simon stopped talking about the council or making telephone calls in the hope of garnering votes, and the leaflets that he had had printed out of hours at work sat untouched in a box in the porch.

Then, without warning or fanfare, came victory. Heading down the dark stairs in search of food on Friday evening, Andrew heard Simon talking stiffly on the telephone in the sitting room, and paused to listen.

‘… withdraw my candidacy,’ he was saying. ‘Yes. Well, my personal circumstances have changed. Yes. Yes. Yeah, that’s right. OK. Thank you.’

Andrew heard Simon replace the receiver.

‘Well, that’s that,’ his father said to his mother. ‘I’m well out of it, if that’s the kind of shit they’re throwing around.’

He heard his mother return some muffled, approving rejoinder, and before Andrew had time to move, Simon had emerged into the hall below, drawn breath into his lungs and yelled the first syllable of Andrew’s name, before realizing that his son was right in front of him.

‘What are you doing?’

Simon’s face was half in shadow, lit only by the light escaping the sitting room.

‘I wanted a drink,’ Andrew lied; his father did not like the boys helping themselves to food.

‘You start work with Mollison this weekend, don’t you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Right, well, you listen to me. I want anything you can get on that bastard, d’you hear me? All the dirt you can get. And on his son, if you hear anything.’

‘All right,’ said Andrew.

‘And I’ll put it up on the f*cking website for them,’ said Simon, and he walked back into the sitting room. ‘Barry Fairbrother’s f*cking ghost.’

As he scavenged an assortment of food that might not be missed, skimming off slices here, handfuls there, a jubilant jingle ran through Andrew’s mind: I stopped you, you bastard. I stopped you.

He had done exactly what he had set out to do: Simon had no idea who had brought his ambitions to dust. The silly sod was even demanding Andrew’s help in getting his revenge; a complete about-turn, because when Andrew had first told his parents that he had a job at the delicatessen, Simon had been furious.

‘You stupid little tit. What about your f*cking allergy?’

‘I thought I’d try not eating any of the nuts,’ said Andrew.

‘Don’t get smart with me, Pizza Face. What if you eat one accidentally, like at St Thomas’s? D’you think we want to go through that crap again?’

But Ruth had supported Andrew, telling Simon that Andrew was old enough to take care, to know better. When Simon had left the room, she had tried to tell Andrew that Simon was only worried about him.

‘The only thing he’s worried about is that he’d have to miss bloody Match of the Day to take me to hospital.’

Andrew returned to his bedroom, where he sat shovelling food into his mouth with one hand and texting Fats with the other.

He thought that it was all over, finished, done with. Andrew had never yet had reason to observe the first tiny bubble of fermenting yeast, in which was contained an inevitable, alchemical transformation.





VIII


The move to Pagford had been the worst thing that had ever happened to Gaia Bawden. Excepting occasional visits to her father in Reading, London was all that she had ever known. So incredulous had Gaia been, when Kay had first said that she wanted to move to a tiny West Country town, that it had been weeks before she took the threat seriously. She had thought it one of Kay’s mad ideas, like the two chickens she had bought for their tiny back garden in Hackney (killed by a fox a week after purchase), or deciding to ruin half their saucepans and permanently scar her own hand by making marmalade, when she hardly ever cooked.

Wrenched from friends she had had since primary school, from the house she had known since she was eight, from weekends that were, increasingly, about every kind of urban fun, Gaia had been plunged, over her pleas, threats and protests, into a life she had never dreamed existed. Cobbled streets and no shops open past six o’clock, a communal life that seemed to revolve around the church, and where you could often hear birdsong and nothing else: Gaia felt as though she had fallen through a portal into a land lost in time.

She and Kay had clung tightly to each other all Gaia’s life (for her father had never lived with them, and Kay’s two successive relationships had never been formalized), bickering, condoling and growing steadily more like flat-mates with the passing years. Now, though, Gaia saw nothing but an enemy when she looked across the kitchen table. Her only ambition was to return to London, by any means possible, and to make Kay as unhappy as she could, in revenge. She could not decide whether it would punish Kay more to fail all her GCSEs, or to pass them, and try and get her father to agree to house her, while she attended a sixth-form college in London. In the meantime, she had to exist in alien territory, where her looks and her accent, once instant passports to the most select social circles, had become foreign currency.

Gaia had no desire to become one of the popular students at Winterdown: she thought they were embarrassing, with their West Country accents and their pathetic ideas of what constituted entertainment. Her determined pursuit of Sukhvinder Jawanda was, in part, a way of showing the in-crowd that she found them laughable, and partly because she was in a mood to feel kinship with anybody who seemed to have outsider status.

The fact that Sukhvinder had agreed to join Gaia as a waitress had moved their friendship to a different level. In their next period of double biology, Gaia unbent as she had never done before, and Sukhvinder glimpsed, at last, part of the mysterious reason why this beautiful, cool newcomer had selected her as a friend. Adjusting the focus on their shared microscope, Gaia muttered, ‘It’s so frigging white here, isn’t it?’

Sukhvinder heard herself saying ‘yeah’ before she had fully considered the question. Gaia was still talking, but Sukhvinder was only half listening. ‘So frigging white.’ She supposed that it was.

At St Thomas’s, she had been made to get up, the only brown person in the class, and talk about the Sikh religion. She had stood obediently at the front of the class and told the story of the Sikh religion’s founder Guru Nanak, who disappeared into a river, and was believed drowned, but re-emerged after three days underwater to announce: ‘There is no Hindu, there is no Moslem.’

The other children had sniggered at the idea of anyone surviving underwater for three days. Sukhvinder had not had the courage to point out that Jesus had died and then come back to life. She had cut the story of Guru Nanak short, desperate to get back to her seat. She had only ever visited a gurdwara a handful of times in her life; there was none in Pagford, and the one in Yarvil was tiny and dominated, according to her parents, by Chamars, a different caste from their own. Sukhvinder did not even know why that mattered, because she knew that Guru Nanak explicitly forbade caste distinctions. It was all very confusing, and she continued to enjoy Easter eggs and decorating the Christmas tree, and found the books that Parminder pressed upon her children, explaining the lives of the gurus and the tenets of Khalsa, extremely difficult to read.

‘Because my mother wanted to be near her twat of a boyfriend,’ muttered Gaia. ‘Gavin Hughes, d’you know him?’

Sukhvinder shook her head.

‘You’ve probably heard them shagging,’ said Gaia. ‘The whole street hears when they’re at it. Just keep your windows open some night.’

Sukhvinder tried not to look shocked, but the idea of overhearing her parents, her married parents, having sex was quite bad enough. Gaia herself was flushed; not, Sukhvinder thought, with embarrassment but with anger. ‘He’s going to ditch her. She’s so deluded. He can’t wait to leave after they’ve done it.’

Sukhvinder would never have talked about her mother like this, and nor would the Fairbrother twins (still, in theory, her best friends). Niamh and Siobhan were working together at a microscope not far away. Since their father had died, they seemed to have closed in on themselves, choosing each other’s company, drifting away from Sukhvinder.

Andrew Price was staring almost constantly at Gaia through a gap in the white faces all around them. Sukhvinder, who had noticed this, thought that Gaia had not, but she was wrong. Gaia was simply not bothering to stare back or preen herself, because she was used to boys staring at her; it had been happening since she was twelve. Two boys in the lower sixth kept turning up in the corridors as she moved between classes, far more often than the law of averages would seem to dictate, and both were better-looking than Andrew. However, none of them could compare to the boy to whom Gaia had lost her virginity shortly before moving to Pagford.

Gaia could hardly bear that Marco de Luca was still physically alive in the universe, and separated from her by a hundred and thirty-two miles of aching, useless space.

‘He’s eighteen,’ she told Sukhvinder. ‘He’s half Italian. He plays football really well. He’s supposed to be getting a try-out for Arsenal’s youth squad.’

Gaia had had sex with Marco four times before leaving Hackney, each time stealing condoms out of Kay’s bedside table. She had half wanted Kay to know to what lengths she was driven, to brand herself on Marco’s memory because she was being forced to leave him.

Sukhvinder listened, fascinated, but not admitting to Gaia that she had already seen Marco on her new friend’s Facebook page. There was nobody like that in the whole of Winterdown: he looked like Johnny Depp.

Gaia slumped against the desk, playing absent-mindedly with the focus on the microscope, and across the room Andrew Price continued to stare at Gaia whenever he thought Fats would not notice.

‘Maybe he’ll be faithful. Sherelle’s having a party on Saturday night. She’s invited him. She’s sworn she won’t let him get up to anything. But shit, I wish …’

She stared at the desk with her flecked eyes out of focus and Sukhvinder watched her humbly, marvelling at her good looks, lost in admiration for her life. The idea of having another world where you belonged completely, where you had a footballer boyfriend and a gang of cool, devoted friends, seemed to her, even if you had been forcibly removed from it all, an awe-inspiring and enviable state of affairs.

They walked together to the shops at lunchtime, something Sukhvinder almost never did; she and the Fairbrother twins usually ate in the canteen.

As they hung about on the pavement outside the newsagent’s where they had bought sandwiches, they heard words uttered in a piercing scream.

‘Your f*cking mum killed my Nan!’

All the Winterdown students clustered by the newsagent’s looked around for the source of the shouting, puzzled, and Sukhvinder imitated them, as confused as everyone else. Then she spotted Krystal Weedon, who was standing on the other side of the road, pointing a stubby finger like a gun. She had four other girls with her, all of them strung along the pavement in a line, held back by the traffic.

‘Your f*cking mum killed my Nan! She’s gonna get f*cking done and so are you!’

Sukhvinder’s stomach seemed to melt clean away. People were staring at her. A couple of third-year girls scuttled out of sight. Sukhvinder sensed the bystanders nearby transforming into a watchful, eager pack. Krystal and her gang were dancing on tiptoes, waiting for a break in the cars.

‘What’s she talking about?’ Gaia asked Sukhvinder, whose mouth was so dry that she could not reply. There was no point in running. She would never make it. Leanne Carter was the fastest girl in their year. All that seemed to move in the world were the passing cars, giving her a few final seconds of safety.

And then Jaswant appeared, accompanied by several sixth-year boys.

‘All right, Jolly?’ she said. ‘What’s up?’

Jaswant had not heard Krystal; it was mere luck that she had drifted this way with her entourage. Over the road, Krystal and her friends had gone into a huddle.

‘Nothing much,’ said Sukhvinder, dizzy with relief at her temporary reprieve. She could not tell Jaz what was happening in front of the boys. Two of them were nearly six feet tall. All were staring at Gaia.

Jaz and her friends moved towards the newsagent’s door, and Sukhvinder, with an urgent look at Gaia, followed them. She and Gaia watched through the window as Krystal and her gang moved on, glancing back every few steps.

‘What was that about?’ Gaia asked.

‘Her great-gran was my mum’s patient, and she died,’ said Sukhvinder. She wanted to cry so much that the muscles in her throat were painful.

‘Silly bitch,’ said Gaia.

But Sukhvinder’s suppressed sobs were born not only from the shaky aftermath of fear. She had liked Krystal very much, and she knew that Krystal had liked her too. All those afternoons on the canal, all those journeys in the minibus; she knew the anatomy of Krystal’s back and shoulders better than she knew her own.

They returned to school with Jaswant and her friends. The best-looking of the boys struck up a conversation with Gaia. By the time they had turned in at the gates, he was teasing her about her London accent. Sukhvinder could not see Krystal anywhere, but she spotted Fats Wall at a distance, loping along with Andrew Price. She would have known his shape and his walk anywhere, the way something primal inside you helped you recognize a spider moving across a shadowy floor.

Wave upon wave of nausea rippled through her as she approached the school building. There would be two of them from now on: Fats and Krystal together. Everyone knew that they were seeing each other. And into Sukhvinder’s mind dropped a vividly coloured picture of herself bleeding on the floor, and Krystal and her gang kicking her, and Fats Wall watching, laughing.

‘Need the loo,’ she told Gaia. ‘Meet you up there.’

She dived into the first girls’ bathroom they passed, locked herself in a cubicle and sat down on the closed seat. If she could have died … if she could have disappeared for ever … but the solid surface of things refused to dissolve around her, and her body, her hateful hermaphrodite’s body, continued, in its stubborn, lumpen way, to live …

She heard the bell for the start of afternoon lessons, jumped up and hurried out of the bathroom. Queues were forming along the corridor. She turned her back on all of them and marched out of the building.

Other people truanted. Krystal did it and so did Fats Wall. If she could only get away and stay away this afternoon, she might be able to think of something to protect her before she had to go back in. Or she could walk in front of a car. She imagined it slamming into her body and her bones shattering. How quickly would she die, broken in the road? She still preferred the thought of drowning, of cool clean water putting her to sleep for ever: a sleep without dreams …

‘Sukhvinder? Sukhvinder!’

Her stomach turned over. Tessa Wall was hurrying towards her across the car park. For one mad moment Sukhvinder considered running, but then the futility of it overwhelmed her, and she stood waiting for Tessa to reach her, hating her, with her stupid plain face and her evil son.

‘Sukhvinder, what are you doing? Where are you going?’

She could not even think of a lie. With a hopeless gesture of her shoulders, she surrendered.

Tessa had no appointments until three. She ought to have taken Sukhvinder to the office and reported her attempted flight; instead, she took Sukhvinder upstairs to the guidance room, with its Nepalese wall-hanging and the posters for ChildLine. Sukhvinder had never been there before.

Tessa spoke, and left inviting little pauses, then spoke again, and Sukhvinder sat with sweaty palms, her gaze fixed on her shoes. Tessa knew her mother – Tessa would tell Parminder that she had tried to truant – but if she explained why? Would Tessa, could Tessa, intercede? Not with her son; she could not control Fats, that was common knowledge. But with Krystal? Krystal came to guidance …

How bad would the beating be, if she told? But there would be a beating even if she did not tell. Krystal had been ready to set her whole gang on her …

‘… anything happened, Sukhvinder?’

She nodded. Tessa said encouragingly, ‘Can you tell me what it was?’

So Sukhvinder told.

She was sure she could read, in the minute contraction of Tessa’s brow as she listened, something other than sympathy for herself. Perhaps Tessa was thinking about how Parminder might react to the news that her treatment of Mrs Catherine Weedon was being screamed about in the street. Sukhvinder had not forgotten to worry about that as she had sat in the bathroom cubicle, wishing for death. Or perhaps Tessa’s look of unease was reluctance to tackle Krystal Weedon; doubtless Krystal was her favourite too, as she had been Mr Fairbrother’s.

A fierce, stinging sense of injustice burst through Sukhvinder’s misery, her fear and her self-loathing; it swept aside that tangle of worries and terrors that encased her daily; she thought of Krystal and her mates, waiting to charge; she thought of Fats, whispering poisonous words from behind her in every maths lesson, and of the message that she had wiped off her Facebook page the previous evening:

Les-bian-ism n. Sexual orientation of women to women. Also called Sapphism. A native or inhabitant of Lesbos.

‘I don’t know how she knows,’ said Sukhvinder, with the blood thrumming in her ears.

‘Knows …?’ asked Tessa, her expression still troubled.

‘That there’s been a complaint about Mum and her great-gran. Krystal and her mum don’t talk to the rest of the family. Maybe,’ said Sukhvinder, ‘Fats told her?’

‘Fats?’ Tessa repeated uncomprehendingly.

‘You know, because they’re seeing each other,’ said Sukhvinder. ‘Him and Krystal? Going out together? So maybe he told her.’

It gave her some bitter satisfaction to see every vestige of professional calm drain from Tessa’s face.





IX


Kay Bawden never wanted to set foot in Miles and Samantha’s house again. She could not forgive them for witnessing Gavin’s parade of indifference, nor could she forget Miles’ patronizing laughter, his attitude to Bellchapel, or the sneery way that he and Samantha had spoken about Krystal Weedon.

In spite of Gavin’s apology and his tepid assurances of affection, Kay could not stop picturing him nose to nose with Mary on the sofa; jumping up to help her with the plates; walking her home in the dark. When Gavin told her, a few days later, that he had had dinner at Mary’s house, she had to fight down an angry response, because he had never eaten more than toast at her house in Hope Street.

She might not be allowed to say anything bad about The Widow, about whom Gavin spoke as though she were the Holy Mother, but the Mollisons were different.

‘I can’t say I like Miles very much.’

‘He’s not exactly my best mate.’

‘If you ask me, it’ll be a catastrophe for the addiction clinic if he gets elected.’

‘I doubt it’ll make any difference.’

Gavin’s apathy, his indifference to other people’s pain, always infuriated Kay.

‘Isn’t there anyone who’ll stick up for Bellchapel?’

‘Colin Wall, I suppose,’ said Gavin.

So, at eight o’clock on Monday evening, Kay walked up the Walls’ drive and rang their doorbell. From the front step, she could make out Samantha Mollison’s red Ford Fiesta, parked in the drive three houses along. The sight added a little extra zest to her desire for a fight.

The Walls’ door was opened by a short plain dumpy woman in a tie-dyed skirt.

‘Hello,’ said Kay. ‘My name’s Kay Bawden, and I was wondering whether I could speak to Colin Wall?’

For a split second, Tessa simply stared at the attractive young woman on the doorstep whom she had never seen before. The strangest idea flashed across her mind: that Colin was having an affair and that his lover had come to tell her so.

‘Oh – yes – come in. I’m Tessa.’

Kay wiped her feet conscientiously on the doormat and followed Tessa into a sitting room that was smaller, shabbier but cosier than the Mollisons’. A tall, balding man with a high forehead was sitting in an armchair with a notebook in his lap and a pen in his hand.

‘Colin, this is Kay Bawden,’ said Tessa. ‘She’d like to speak to you.’

Tessa saw Colin’s startled and wary expression, and knew at once that the woman was a stranger to him. Really, she thought, a little ashamed, what were you thinking?

‘I’m sorry to barge in on you like this, unannounced,’ said Kay, as Colin stood up to shake her hand. ‘I would have telephoned, but you’re—’

‘We’re ex-directory, yes,’ said Colin. He towered over Kay, his eyes tiny behind the lenses of his glasses. ‘Please, sit down.’

‘Thank you. It’s about the election,’ said Kay. ‘This Parish Council election. You’re standing, aren’t you, against Miles Mollison?’

‘That’s right,’ said Colin nervously. He knew who she must be: the reporter who had wanted to talk to Krystal. They had tracked him down – Tessa ought not to have let her in.

‘I was wondering whether I could help in any way,’ said Kay. ‘I’m a social worker, mostly working in the Fields. There are some facts and figures I could give you about the Bellchapel Addiction Clinic, which Mollison seems quite keen on closing. I’ve been told that you’re for the clinic? That you’d like to keep it open?’

The onrush of relief and pleasure made him almost giddy.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Colin, ‘yes, I would. Yes, that was my predecessor’s – that’s to say, the previous holder of the seat – Barry Fairbrother – was certainly opposed to closing the clinic. And I am, too.’

‘Well, I’ve had a conversation with Miles Mollison, and he made it quite clear that he doesn’t think the clinic’s worth keeping open. Frankly, I think he’s rather ignorant and naive about the causes and treatment of addiction, and about the very real difference Bellchapel is making. If the Parish refuses to renew the lease on the building, and the District cuts funding, then there’s a danger that some very vulnerable people will be left without support.’

‘Yes, yes, I see,’ said Colin. ‘Oh, yes, I agree.’

He was astonished and flattered that this attractive young woman would have walked through the evening to find him and offer herself as an ally.

‘Would you like a cup of tea or coffee, Kay?’ asked Tessa.

‘Oh, thanks very much,’ said Kay. ‘Tea, please, Tessa. No sugar.’

Fats was in the kitchen, helping himself from the fridge. He ate copiously and continually, but remained scrawny, never putting on an ounce of weight. In spite of his openly declared disgust for them, he seemed unaffected by Tessa’s pack of ready-filled syringes, which sat in a clinical white box next to the cheese.

Tessa moved to the kettle, and her thoughts returned to the subject that had consumed her ever since Sukhvinder had suggested it earlier: that Fats and Krystal were ‘seeing each other’. She had not questioned Fats, and she had not told Colin.

The more that Tessa thought about it, the more certain she was that it could not be true. She was sure that Fats held himself in such high regard that no girl would be good enough, especially a girl like Krystal. Surely he would not …

Demean himself? Is that it? Is that what you think?

‘Who’s here?’ Fats asked Tessa, through a mouthful of cold chicken, as she put on the kettle.

‘A woman who wants to help Dad get elected to the council,’ replied Tessa, foraging in the cupboard for biscuits.

‘Why? Does she fancy him?’

‘Grow up, Stu,’ said Tessa crossly.

He plucked several slices of thin ham out of an open pack and poked them, bit by bit, into his crammed mouth, like a magician inserting silk handkerchiefs into his fist. Fats sometimes stood for ten minutes at a time at the open fridge, ripping open clingfilm and packets and putting chunks of food directly into his mouth. It was a habit Colin deprecated, along with almost every other aspect of Fats’ behaviour.

‘Why’s she want to help him, seriously?’ he asked, having swallowed his mouthful of meat.

‘She wants the Bellchapel Addiction Clinic to stay open.’

‘What, a junkie, is she?’

‘No, she isn’t a junkie,’ said Tessa, noting with annoyance that Fats had finished the last three chocolate biscuits and left the empty wrappings on the shelf. ‘She’s a social worker, and she thinks the clinic is doing a good job. Dad wants to keep it open, but Miles Mollison doesn’t think it’s very effective.’

‘It can’t be doing that well. The Fields are full of glue-sniffers and smackheads.’

Tessa knew that if she had said that Colin wanted to close the clinic, Fats would have instantly produced an argument for its continuation.

‘You ought to be a barrister, Stu,’ she said as the kettle lid started to rattle.

When Tessa returned to the sitting room with her tray, she found Kay talking Colin through a sheaf of printed material she had brought out of her big tote bag.

‘… two drugs workers part-funded by the council, and partly by Action on Addiction, which is a really good charity. Then there’s a social worker attached to the clinic, Nina, she’s the one who gave me all this – oh, thanks very much,’ said Kay, beaming up at Tessa, who had set down a mug of tea on the table beside her.

Kay had taken to the Walls, in just a few minutes, as she had not taken to anybody else in Pagford. There had been no sweeping up-and-down glance from Tessa as she walked in, no gimlet-eyed assessment of her physical imperfections and dress sense. Her husband, though nervous, seemed decent and earnest in his determination to obstruct the abandonment of the Fields.

‘Is that a London accent, Kay?’ asked Tessa, dunking a plain biscuit in her tea. Kay nodded.

‘What brings you to Pagford?’

‘A relationship,’ said Kay. She took no pleasure saying it, even though she and Gavin were officially reconciled. She turned back to Colin.

‘I don’t quite understand the situation with regards to the Parish Council and the clinic.’

‘Oh, it owns the building,’ said Colin. ‘It’s an old church. The lease is coming up for renewal.’

‘So that would be an easy way to force them out.’

‘Exactly. When did you say you’d spoken to Miles Mollison?’ asked Colin, both hoping and dreading to hear that Miles had mentioned him.

‘We had dinner, Friday before last,’ Kay explained, ‘Gavin and I—’

‘Oh, you’re Gavin’s girlfriend!’ interjected Tessa.

‘Yes; and, anyway, the subject of the Fields came up—’

‘It would,’ said Tessa.

‘—and Miles mentioned Bellchapel, and I was quite – quite dismayed by the way he talked about the issues involved. I told him I’m dealing with a family at the moment,’ Kay remembered her indiscreet mention of the Weedons’ names and proceeded carefully, ‘and if the mother is deprived of methadone, she’ll almost certainly end up back on the game.’

‘That sounds like the Weedons,’ said Tessa, with a lowering sensation.

‘I – yes, I am talking about the Weedons, actually,’ said Kay.

Tessa reached for another biscuit.

‘I’m Krystal’s guidance teacher. This must be the second time her mother’s been through Bellchapel, is it?’

‘Third,’ said Kay.

‘We’ve known Krystal since she was five: she was in our son’s class at primary school,’ Tessa said. ‘She’s had an awful life, really.’

‘Absolutely,’ said Kay. ‘It’s astounding she’s as sweet as she is, actually.’

‘Oh, I agree,’ said Colin heartily.

Remembering Colin’s absolute refusal to rescind Krystal’s detention after the squawking incident in assembly, Tessa raised her eyebrows. Then she wondered, with a sick lurch in her stomach, what Colin would say if Sukhvinder was not lying or mistaken. But surely Sukhvinder was wrong. She was a shy, naive girl. Probably she had got the wrong end of the stick … misheard something …

‘The point is, about the only thing that motivates Terri is the fear of losing her kids,’ said Kay. ‘She’s back on track at the moment; her key worker at the clinic told me she senses a bit of a breakthrough in Terri’s attitude. If Bellchapel closes, it all goes belly-up again, and God knows what’ll happen to the family.’

‘This is all very useful,’ said Colin, nodding importantly, and starting to make notes on a clean page in his notebook. ‘Very useful indeed. Did you say you’ve got statistics on people going clean?’

Kay shuffled the printed pages, looking for the information. Tessa had the impression that Colin wanted to reclaim Kay’s attention for himself. He had always been susceptible to good looks and a sympathetic manner.

Tessa munched another biscuit, still thinking about Krystal. Their recent guidance sessions had not been very satisfactory. Krystal had been standoffish. Today’s had been no different. She had extracted a promise from Krystal that she would not pursue or harass Sukhvinder Jawanda again, but Krystal’s demeanour suggested that Tessa had let her down, that trust was broken. Possibly Colin’s detention was to blame. Tessa had thought that she and Krystal had forged a bond strong enough to withstand that, although it had never been quite like the one Krystal had with Barry.

(Tessa had been there, on the spot, the day that Barry had come into school with a rowing machine, looking for recruits to the crew he was trying to start. She had been summoned from the staff room to the gym, because the PE teacher was off sick, and the only supply teacher they could find at such short notice was male.

The fourth-year girls, in their shorts and Aertex tops, had been giggly when they had arrived in the gym to find Miss Jarvis absent, replaced by two strange men. Tessa had had to reprimand Krystal, Nikki and Leanne, who had pushed to the front of the class and were making lewd suggestive remarks about the supply teacher; he was a handsome young man with an unfortunate tendency to blush.

Barry, short, ginger-haired and bearded, was wearing a tracksuit. He had taken a morning off work to do this. Everybody thought his idea was strange and unrealistic: schools like Winterdown did not have rowing eights. Niamh and Siobhan had seemed half amused, half mortified by their dad’s presence.

Barry explained what he was trying to do: put together crews. He had secured the use of the old boathouse down on the canal at Yarvil; it was a fabulous sport, and an opportunity to shine, for themselves, for their school. Tessa had positioned herself right next to Krystal and her friends to keep them in check; the worst of their giggling had subsided, but was not entirely quelled.

Barry demonstrated the rowing machine and asked for volunteers. Nobody stepped forward.

‘Krystal Weedon,’ said Barry, pointing at her. ‘I’ve seen you dangling off the monkey bars down the park; that’s proper upper body strength you’ve got there. Come here and give it a go.’

Krystal was only too happy to step into the spotlight; she swaggered up to the machine and sat down on it. Even with Tessa glowering beside them, Nikki and Leanne had howled with laughter and the rest of the class joined in.

Barry showed Krystal what to do. The silent supply teacher had watched in professional alarm as Barry positioned her hands on the wooden handle.

She heaved on the handle, making a stupid face at Nikki and Leanne, and everyone laughed again.

‘Look at that,’ Barry had said, beaming. ‘She’s a natural.’

Had Krystal really been a natural? Tessa did not know anything about rowing; she could not tell.

‘Straighten your back,’ Barry told Krystal, ‘or you’ll injure it. That’s it. Pull … pull … look at that technique … have you done this before?’

Then Krystal really had straightened her back, and she really had done it properly. She stopped looking at Nikki and Leanne. She hit a rhythm.

‘Excellent,’ said Barry. ‘Look at that … excellent. That’s how you do it! Atta girl. And again. And again. And—’

‘It ’urts!’ shouted Krystal.

‘I know it does. That’s how you end up with arms like Jennifer Aniston, doing that,’ said Barry.

There had been a little ripple of laughter, but this time they laughed with him. What was it that Barry had had? He was always so present, so natural, so entirely without self-consciousness. Teenagers, Tessa knew, were riven with the fear of ridicule. Those who were without it, and God knew there were few enough of them in the adult world, had natural authority among the young; they ought to be forced to teach.

‘And rest!’ Barry said, and Krystal slumped, red in the face and rubbing her arms.

‘You’ll have to give up the fags, Krystal,’ said Barry, and he got a big laugh this time. ‘OK, who else wants a try?’

When Krystal rejoined her watching classmates, she was no longer laughing. She watched each new rower jealously, her eyes darting constantly to Barry’s bearded face to see what he thought of them. When Carmen Lewis messed it up completely, Barry said, ‘Show ’em, Krystal,’ and her face lit up as she returned to the machine.

But at the end of the exhibition, when Barry asked those who were interested in trying out for the team to raise their hands, Krystal kept her arms folded. Tessa watched her shake her head, sneering, as Nikki muttered to her. Barry carefully noted down the names of the interested girls, then looked up.

‘And you, Krystal Weedon,’ he said, pointing at her. ‘You’re coming too. Don’t you shake your head at me. I’ll be very annoyed if I don’t see you. That’s natural talent you’ve got there. I don’t like seeing natural talent wasted. Krys – tal,’ he said loudly, inscribing her name, ‘Wee – don.’

Had Krystal thought about her natural talent as she showered at the end of the lesson? Had she carried the thought of her new aptitude around with her that day, like an unexpected Valentine? Tessa did not know; but to the amazement of all, except perhaps Barry, Krystal had turned up at try-outs.)

Colin was nodding vigorously as Kay took him through relapse rates at Bellchapel.

‘Parminder should see this,’ he said. ‘I’ll make sure she gets a copy. Yes, yes, very useful indeed.’

Feeling slightly sick, Tessa took a fourth biscuit.





X


Parminder worked late on Monday evenings, and as Vikram was usually at the hospital, the three Jawanda children laid the table and cooked for themselves. Sometimes they squabbled; occasionally they had a laugh; but today, each was absorbed in their own particular thoughts, and the job was completed with unusual efficiency in near silence.

Sukhvinder had not told her brother or her sister that she had tried to truant, or about Krystal Weedon’s threat to beat her up. The habit of secrecy was very strong in her these days. She was actively frightened of imparting confidences, because she feared that they might betray the world of oddness that lived inside her, the world that Fats Wall seemed able to penetrate with such terrifying ease. All the same, she knew that the events of the day could not be kept quiet indefinitely. Tessa had told her that she intended to telephone Parminder.

‘I’m going to have to call your mum, Sukhvinder, it’s what we always do, but I’m going to explain to her why you did it.’

Sukhvinder had felt almost warm towards Tessa, even though she was Fats Wall’s mother. Frightened though she was of her mother’s reaction, a tiny little glow of hope had kindled inside her at the thought of Tessa interceding for her. Would the realization of Sukhvinder’s desperation lead, at last, to some crack in her mother’s implacable disapproval, her disappointment, her endless stone-faced criticism?

When the front door opened at last, she heard her mother speaking Punjabi.

‘Oh, not the bloody farm again,’ groaned Jaswant, who had cocked an ear to the door.

The Jawandas owned a patch of ancestral land in the Punjab, which Parminder, the oldest, had inherited from their father in the absence of sons. The farm occupied a place in the family consciousness that Jaswant and Sukhvinder had sometimes discussed. To their slightly amused astonishment, a few of their older relatives seemed to live in the expectation that the whole family would move back there one day. Parminder’s father had sent money back to the farm all his life. It was tenanted and worked by second cousins, who seemed surly and embittered. The farm caused regular arguments among her mother’s family.

‘Nani’s gone off on one again,’ interpreted Jaswant, as Parminder’s muffled voice penetrated the door.

Parminder had taught her first-born some Punjabi, and Jaz had picked up a lot more from their cousins. Sukhvinder’s dyslexia had been too severe to enable her to learn two languages and the attempt had been abandoned.

‘… Harpreet still wants to sell off that bit for the road …’

Sukhvinder heard Parminder kicking off her shoes. She wished that her mother had not been bothered about the farm tonight of all nights; it never put her into a good mood; and when Parminder pushed open the kitchen door and she saw her mother’s tight mask-like face, her courage failed her completely.

Parminder acknowledged Jaswant and Rajpal with a slight wave of her hand, but she pointed at Sukhvinder and then towards a kitchen chair, indicating that she was to sit down and wait for the call to end.

Jaswant and Rajpal drifted back upstairs. Sukhvinder waited beneath the wall of photographs, in which her relative inadequacy was displayed for the world to see, pinned to her chair by her mother’s silent command. On and on went the call, until at long last Parminder said goodbye and cut the connection.

When she turned to look at her daughter Sukhvinder knew, instantly, before a word was spoken, that she had been wrong to hope.

‘So,’ said Parminder. ‘I had a call from Tessa while I was at work. I expect you know what it was about.’

Sukhvinder nodded. Her mouth seemed to be full of cotton wool.

Parminder’s rage crashed over her like a tidal wave, dragging Sukhvinder with it, so that she was unable to find her feet or right herself.

‘Why? Why? Is this copying the London girl, again – are you trying to impress her? Jaz and Raj never behave like this, never – why do you? What’s wrong with you? Are you proud of being lazy and sloppy? Do you think it’s cool to act like a delinquent? How do you think I felt when Tessa told me? Called at work – I’ve never been so ashamed – I’m disgusted by you, do you hear me? Do we not give you enough? Do we not help you enough? What is wrong with you, Sukhvinder?’

In desperation, Sukhvinder tried to break through her mother’s tirade, and mentioned the name Krystal Weedon—

‘Krystal Weedon!’ shouted Parminder. ‘That stupid girl! Why are you paying attention to anything she says? Did you tell her I tried to keep her damn great-grandmother alive? Did you tell her that?’

‘I – no—’

‘If you’re going to care about what the likes of Krystal Weedon says, there’s no hope for you! Perhaps that’s your natural level, is it, Sukhvinder? You want to play truant and work in a café and waste all your opportunities for education, because that’s easier? Is that what being in a team with Krystal Weedon taught you – to sink to her level?’

Sukhvinder thought of Krystal and her gang, raring to go on the opposite kerb, waiting for a break in the cars. What would it take to make her mother understand? An hour ago she had had the tiniest fantasy that she might confide in her mother, at last, about Fats Wall …

‘Get out of my sight! Go! I’ll speak to your father when he comes in – go!’

Sukhvinder walked upstairs. Jaswant called from her bedroom: ‘What was all that shouting about?’

Sukhvinder did not answer. She proceeded to her own room, where she closed the door and sat down on the edge of her bed.

What’s wrong with you, Sukhvinder?

You disgust me.

Are you proud of being lazy and sloppy?

What had she expected? Warm encircling arms and comfort? When had she ever been hugged and held by Parminder? There was more comfort to be had from the razor blade hidden in her stuffed rabbit; but the desire, mounting to a need, to cut and bleed, could not be satisfied by daylight, with the family awake and her father on his way.

The dark lake of desperation and pain that lived in Sukhvinder and yearned for release was in flames, as if it had been fuel all along.

Let her see how it feels.

She got up, crossed her bedroom in a few strides, and dropping into the chair by her desk, pounded at the keyboard of her computer.

Sukhvinder had been just as interested as Andrew Price when that stupid supply teacher had tried to impress them with his cool in computing. Unlike Andrew and a couple of the other boys, Sukhvinder had not plied the teacher with questions about the hacking; she had merely gone home quietly and looked it all up online. Nearly every modern website was proof against a classic SQL injection, but when Sukhvinder had heard her mother discussing the anonymous attack on the Pagford Parish Council website, it had occurred to Sukhvinder that the security on that feeble old site was probably minimal.

Sukhvinder always found it much easier to type than to write, and computer code easier to read than long strings of words. It did not take very long for her to retrieve a site that gave explicit instructions for the simplest form of SQL injection. Then she brought up the Parish Council website.

It took her five minutes to hack the site, and then only because she had transcribed the code wrong the first time. To her astonishment, she discovered that whoever was administering the site had not removed the user details of The_Ghost_of_Barry_Fairbrother from the database, but merely deleted the post. It would be child’s play, therefore, to post in the same name.

It took Sukhvinder much longer to compose the message than it had to hack into the site. She had carried the secret accusation with her for months, ever since New Year’s Eve, when she had noticed with wonder her mother’s face, at ten to midnight, from the corner of the party where she was hiding. She typed slowly. Autocorrect helped with her spelling.

She was not afraid that Parminder would check her computer history; her mother knew so little about her, and about what went on in this bedroom, that she would never suspect her lazy, stupid, sloppy daughter.

Sukhvinder pressed the mouse like a trigger.





XI


Krystal did not take Robbie to nursery on Tuesday morning, but dressed him for Nana Cath’s funeral instead. As she pulled up his least ripped trousers, which were a good two inches too short in the leg, she tried to explain to him who Nana Cath had been, but she might as well have saved her breath. Robbie had no memory of Nana Cath; he had no idea what Nana meant; no concept of any relative other than mother and sister. In spite of her shifting hints and stories, Krystal knew that Terri had no idea who his father was.

Krystal heard her mother’s footsteps on the stairs.

‘Leave it,’ she snapped at Robbie, who had reached for an empty beer can lying beneath Terri’s usual armchair. ‘C’m’ere.’

She pulled Robbie by the hand into the hall. Terri was still wearing the pyjama bottoms and dirty T-shirt in which she had spent the night, and her feet were bare.

‘Why intcha changed?’ demanded Krystal.

‘I ain’t goin’,’ said Terri, pushing past her son and daughter into the kitchen. ‘Changed me mind.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’ wanna,’ said Terri. She was lighting a cigarette off the ring of the cooker. ‘Don’ f*ckin’ ’ave to.’

Krystal was still holding Robbie’s hand, as he tugged and swung.

‘They’re all goin’,’ said Krystal. ‘Cheryl an’ Shane an’ all.’

‘So?’ said Terri aggressively.

Krystal had been afraid that her mother would pull out at the last minute. The funeral would bring her face to face with Danielle, the sister who pretended that Terri did not exist, not to mention all the other relatives who had disowned them. Anne-Marie might be there. Krystal had been holding on to that hope, like a torch in the darkness, through the nights she had sobbed for Nana Cath and Mr Fairbrother.

‘You gotta go,’ said Krystal.

‘No, I ain’.’

‘It’s Nana Cath, innit,’ said Krystal.

‘So?’ said Terri, again.

‘She done loads fer us,’ said Krystal.

‘No, she ain’,’ snapped Terri.

‘She did,’ said Krystal, her face hot and her hand clutching Robbie’s.

‘Fer you, maybe,’ said Terri. ‘She done f*ck-all for me. Go an’ f*ckin’ bawl all over ’er f*ckin’ grave if yeh want. I’m waitin’ in.’

‘Wha’ for?’ said Krystal.

‘My bus’ness, innit.’

The old familiar shadow fell.

‘Obbo’s comin’ round, is ’e?’

‘My bus’ness,’ repeated Terri, with pathetic dignity.

‘Come to the funeral,’ said Krystal loudly.

‘You go.’

‘Don’ go f*ckin’ usin’,’ said Krystal, her voice an octave higher.

‘I ain’,’ said Terri, but she turned away, looking out of the dirty back window over the patch of overgrown litter-strewn grass they called the back garden.

Robbie tugged his hand out of Krystal’s and disappeared into the sitting room. With her fists deep in her trackie pockets, shoulders squared, Krystal tried to decide what to do. She wanted to cry at the thought of not going to the funeral, but her distress was edged with relief that she would not have to face the battery of hostile eyes she had sometimes met at Nana Cath’s. She was angry with Terri, and yet felt strangely on her side. You don’t even know who the father is, do yeh, yer whore? She wanted to meet Anne-Marie, but was scared.

‘All righ’, then, I’ll stay an’ all.’

‘You don’ ’ave ter. Go, if yeh wan’. I don’ f*ckin’ care.’

But Krystal, certain that Obbo would appear, stayed. Obbo had been away for more than a week, for some nefarious purpose of his own. Krystal wished that he had died, that he would never come back.

For something to do, she began to tidy the house, while smoking one of the roll-ups Fats Wall had given her. She didn’t like them, but she liked that he had given them to her. She had been keeping them in Nikki’s plastic jewellery box, along with Tessa’s watch.

She had thought that she might not see Fats any more, after their shag in the cemetery, because he had been almost silent afterwards and left her with barely a goodbye, but they had since met up on the rec. She could tell that he had enjoyed this time more than the last; they had not been stoned, and he had lasted longer. He lay beside her in the grass beneath the bushes, smoking, and when she had told him about Nana Cath dying, he had told her that Sukhvinder Jawanda’s mother had given Nana Cath the wrong drugs or something; he was not clear exactly what had happened.

Krystal had been horrified. So Nana Cath need not have died; she might still have been in the neat little house on Hope Street, there in case Krystal needed her, offering a refuge with a comfortable clean-sheeted bed, the tiny kitchen full of food and mismatched china, and the little TV in the corner of the sitting room: I don’ wanna watch no filth, Krystal, turn that off.

Krystal had liked Sukhvinder, but Sukhvinder’s mother had killed Nana Cath. You did not differentiate between members of an enemy tribe. It had been Krystal’s avowed intention to pulverize Sukhvinder; but then Tessa Wall had intervened. Krystal could not remember the details of what Tessa had told her; but it seemed that Fats had got the story wrong or, at least, not exactly right. She had given Tessa a grudging promise not to go after Sukhvinder, but such promises could only ever be stop-gaps in Krystal’s frantic ever-changing world.

‘Put it down!’ Krystal shouted at Robbie, because he was trying to prise the lid off the biscuit tin where Terri kept her works.

Krystal snatched the tin from him and held it in her hands like a living creature, something that would fight to stay alive, whose destruction would have tremendous consequences. There was a scratched picture on the lid: a carriage with luggage piled high on the roof, drawn through the snow by four chestnut horses, a coachman in a top hat carrying a bugle. She carried the tin upstairs with her, while Terri sat in the kitchen smoking, and hid it in her bedroom. Robbie trailed after her.

‘Wanna go play park.’

She sometimes took him and pushed him on the swings and the roundabout.

‘Not today, Robbie.’

He whined until she shouted at him to shut up.

Later, when it was dark – after Krystal had made Robbie his tea of spaghetti hoops and given him a bath; when the funeral was long since over – Obbo rapped on the front door. Krystal saw him from Robbie’s bedroom window and tried to get there first, but Terri beat her to it.

‘All righ’, Ter?’ he said, over the threshold before anyone had invited him in. ‘’Eard you was lookin’ fer me las’ week.’

Although she had told him to stay put, Robbie had followed Krystal downstairs. She could smell his shampooed hair over the smell of fags and stale sweat that clung to Obbo in his ancient leather jacket. Obbo had had a few; when he leered at her, she smelt the beer fumes.

‘All righ’, Obbo?’ said Terri, with the note in her voice Krystal never heard otherwise. It was conciliating, accommodating; it conceded that he had rights in their house. ‘Where you bin, then?’

‘Bristol,’ he said. ‘How’s you, Ter?’

‘She don’ wan’ nuthin’,’ said Krystal.

He blinked at her through his thick glasses. Robbie was clutching Krystal’s leg so tightly that she could feel his nails in her skin.

‘Oo’s this, Ter?’ asked Obbo. ‘Yer mum?’

Terri laughed. Krystal glared at him, Robbie’s grip tight on her thigh. Obbo’s bleary gaze dropped to him.

‘An’ ’ow’s me boy?’

‘He ain’ your f*ckin’ boy,’ said Krystal.

‘’Ow d’you know?’ Obbo asked her quietly, grinning.

‘F*ck off. She don’ wan’ nuthin’. Tell ’im,’ Krystal virtually shouted at Terri. ‘Tell ’im you don’ wan’ nuthin’.’

Daunted, caught between two wills much stronger than her own, Terri said, ‘’E on’y come rounda see—’

‘No, ’e ain’t,’ said Krystal. ‘No, ’e f*ckin’ ain’t. Tell ’im. She don’ wan’ nuthin’,’ she said fiercely into Obbo’s grinning face. ‘She’s bin off it fer weeks.’

‘Is tha’ right, Terri?’ said Obbo, still smiling.

‘Yeah, it is,’ said Krystal, when Terri did not answer. ‘She’s still at Bellchapel.’

‘Noffur much longer,’ said Obbo.

‘F*ck off,’ said Krystal, outraged.

‘Closin’ it,’ said Obbo.

‘Are they?’ said Terri in sudden panic. ‘They ain’t, are they?’

‘Course they are,’ said Obbo. ‘Cuts, innit?’

‘You don’t know nuthin’,’ Krystal told Obbo. ‘It’s bollocks,’ she told her mother. ‘They ’aven’ said nuthin’, ’ave they?’

‘Cuts,’ repeated Obbo, patting his bulging pockets for cigarettes.

‘We got the case review,’ Krystal reminded Terri. ‘Yeh can’t use. Yeh can’t.’

‘Wha’s that?’ asked Obbo, fiddling with his lighter, but neither woman enlightened him. Terri met her daughter’s gaze for a bare two seconds; her eyes fell, reluctantly, to Robbie in his pyjamas, still clinging tightly to Krystal’s leg.

‘Yeah, I wuz gonna go ter bed, Obbo,’ she mumbled, without looking at him. ‘I’ll mebbe see yer another time.’

‘I ’eard your Nan died,’ he said. ‘Cheryl wuz tellin’ me.’

Pain contorted Terri’s face; she looked as old as Nana Cath herself.

‘Yeah, I’m goin’ ter bed. C’mon, Robbie. Come wi’ me, Robbie.’

Robbie did not want to let go of Krystal while Obbo was still there. Terri held out her claw-like hand.

‘Yeah, go on, Robbie,’ Krystal urged him. In certain moods, Terri clutched her son like a teddy bear; better Robbie than smack. ‘Go on. Go wi’ Mum.’

He was reassured by something in Krystal’s voice, and allowed Terri to take him upstairs.

‘See yeh,’ said Krystal, without looking at Obbo, but stalking away from him into the kitchen, pulling the last of Fats Wall’s roll-ups out of her pocket and bending to light it off the gas ring. She heard the front door close and felt triumphant. F*ck him.

‘You got a lovely arse, Krystal.’

She jumped so violently that a plate slipped off the heaped side and smashed on the filthy floor. He had not gone, but had followed her. He was staring at her chest in its tight T-shirt.

‘F*ck off,’ she said.

‘Big girl, intcha?’

‘F*ck off.’

‘I ’eard you give it away free,’ said Obbo, closing in. ‘You could make better money’n yer mum.’

‘F*ck—’

His hand was on her left breast. She tried to knock it away; he seized her wrist in his other hand. Her lit cigarette grazed his face and he punched her, twice, to the side of the head; more plates shattered on the filthy floor and then, as they wrestled, she slipped and fell; the back of her head smacked on the floor, and he was on top of her: she could feel his hand at the waistband of her tracksuit bottoms, pulling.

‘No – f*ck – no!’

His knuckles in her belly as he undid his own flies – she tried to scream and he smacked her across the face – the smell of him was thick in her nostrils as he growled in her ear, ‘F*ckin’ shout and I’ll cut yer.’

He was inside her and it hurt; she could hear him grunting and her own tiny whimper; she was ashamed of the noise she made, so frightened and so small.

He came and clambered off her. At once she pulled up her tracksuit bottoms and jumped up to face him, tears pouring down her face as he leered at her.

‘I’ll tell Mist’ Fairbrother,’ she heard herself sob. She did not know where it came from. It was a stupid thing to say.

‘The f*ck’s he?’ Obbo tugged up his flies, lit a cigarette, taking his time, blocking her exit. ‘You f*ckin’ ’im too, are yeh? Little slapper.’

He sauntered up the hall and was gone.

She was shaking as she had never done in her life. She thought she might be sick; she could smell him all over her. The back of her head throbbed; there was a pain inside her, and wetness seeping into her pants. She ran out of the room into the living room and stood, shivering, with her arms wrapped around herself; then she knew a moment of terror, that he would come back, and hurried to the front door to lock it.

Back in the sitting room she found a long stub in the ashtray and lit it. Smoking, shaking and sobbing, she sank into Terri’s usual chair, then jumped up because she heard footsteps on the stairs: Terri had reappeared, looking confused and wary.

‘Wha’ssa matter with you?’

Krystal gagged on the words.

‘He jus’ – he jus’ f*cked me.’

‘Wha’?’ said Terri.

‘Obbo – ’e jus’—’

‘’E wouldn’.’

It was the instinctive denial with which Terri met all of life: he wouldn’t, no, I never, no, I didn’t.

Krystal flew at her and pushed her; emaciated as she was, Terri crumpled backwards into the hall, shrieking and swearing; Krystal ran to the door she had just locked, fumbled to unfasten it and wrenched it open.

Still sobbing, she was twenty yards along the dark street before she realized that Obbo might be waiting out here, watching. She cut across a neighbour’s garden at a run and took a zig-zag route through back ways in the direction of Nikki’s house, and all the time the wetness spread in her pants and she thought she might throw up.

Krystal knew that it was rape, what he had done. It had happened to Leanne’s older sister in the car park of a nightclub in Bristol. Some people would have gone to the police, she knew that; but you did not invite the police into your life when your mother was Terri Weedon.

I’ll tell Mist’ Fairbrother.

Her sobs came faster and faster. She could have told Mr Fairbrother. He had known what real life was like. One of his brothers had done time. He had told Krystal stories of his youth. It had not been like her youth – nobody was as low as her, she knew that – but like Nikki’s, like Leanne’s. Money had run out; his mother had bought her council house and then been unable to keep up the payments; they had lived for a while in a caravan lent by an uncle.

Mr Fairbrother took care of things; he sorted things out. He had come to their house and talked to Terri about Krystal and rowing, because there had been an argument and Terri was refusing to sign forms for Krystal to go away with the team. He had not been disgusted, or he had not shown it, which came to the same thing. Terri, who liked and trusted nobody, had said, ‘’E seems all righ’,’ and she had signed.

Mr Fairbrother had once said to her, ‘It’ll be tougher for you than these others, Krys; it was tougher for me. But you can do better. You don’t have to go the same way.’

He had meant working hard at school and stuff, but it was too late for that and, anyway, it was all bollocks. How would reading help her now?

’Ow’s me boy?

He ain’ your f*ckin’ boy.

’Ow d’you know?

Leanne’s sister had had to get the morning-after pill. Krystal would ask Leanne about the pill and go and get it. She could not have Obbo’s baby. The thought of it made her retch.

I gotta get out of here.

She thought fleetingly of Kay, and then discarded her: as bad as the police, to tell a social worker that Obbo walked in and out of their house, raping people. She would take Robbie for sure, if she knew that.

A clear lucid voice in Krystal’s head was speaking to Mr Fairbrother, who was the only adult who had ever talked to her the way she needed, unlike Mrs Wall, so well-intentioned and so blinkered, and Nana Cath, refusing to hear the whole truth.

I gotta get Robbie out of here. How can I get away? I gotta get away.

Her one sure refuge, the little house in Hope Street, was already being gobbled up by squabbling relatives …

She scurried around a corner underneath a street lamp, looking over her shoulder in case he was watching her, following.

And then the answer came to her, as though Mr Fairbrother had shown her the way.

If she got knocked up by Fats Wall, she would be able to get her own place from the council. She would be able to take Robbie to live with her and the baby if Terri used again. And Obbo would never enter her house, not ever. There would be bolts and chains and locks on the door, and her house would be clean, always clean, like Nana Cath’s house.

Half running along the dark street, Krystal’s sobs slowed and subsided.

The Walls would probably give her money. They were like that. She could imagine Tessa’s plain, concerned face, bending over a cot. Krystal would have their grandchild.

She would lose Fats in getting pregnant; they always went, once you were expecting; she had watched it happen nearly every time in the Fields. But perhaps he would be interested; he was so strange. It did not much matter to her either way. Her interest in him, except as the essential component in her plan, had dwindled to almost nothing. What she wanted was the baby: the baby was more than a means to an end. She liked babies; she had always loved Robbie. She would keep the two of them safe, together; she would be like a better, kinder, younger Nana Cath to her family.

Anne-Marie might come and visit, once she was away from Terri. Their children would be cousins. A very vivid image of herself and Anne-Marie came to Krystal; they were standing at the school gates of St Thomas’s in Pagford, waving off two little girls in pale blue dresses and ankle socks.

The lights were on in Nikki’s house, as they always were. Krystal broke into a run.