

DISTRACTION

Smashwords Edition

by

Connell Glynn

Copyright 2013

No arts; no letters; no society; and which is worst of all, continual fear and danger of violent death; and the life of man, solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.

\- Thomas Hobbes, The Leviathan

Sebastien Reginald Daly was a hard boy. He'd had to be, with a name like that. He'd had to be, his whole life. He trusted no one and loved nothing. He hated nothing or no one either, and prided himself on his indifference and his ability to preserve himself from pain. He'd already watched several acquaintances - Seb did not have friends - driven to drink and drugs by the lives they had led; no, not led, had had inflicted upon them. He was determined not to go the same way. He enjoyed nothing more than a bottle of vodka on a wet afternoon in the park, or a bottle of whisky by himself at night, but he never touched drugs. Had never, would never, he swore. He'd seen, every night, what they'd done to his mother, what she'd done for them and what she'd allowed them to do to her. He had been abused and misused for twelve years of his life and he was determined never to let that happen again, by himself or anyone else. He'd watched as his mother degraded and debased herself every day, allowing herself to be beaten, bruised and used. He'd felt no love for her, but no resentment either. She was what she was. The drugs had made her so.

He'd felt no great sadness when the police had come, knocking gravely on the door, their faces the picture of regret and concern. She'd been found strangled in a laneway, naked but for her favourite red shoes. He'd felt no great loss either - though they had shared a house, they'd had precious little to do with each other. Dolly earned her wedge and Seb earned his and their paths crossed only occasionally, when Dolly was injured or overdosed and Seb found himself escorting his mother to hospital again, blankly lying to the doctors on her behalf. Even in the same room she had hardly seemed to notice he was there.

No, Sebastien Daly was not perturbed by his mother's death, brutal and unexpected though it was. He was a hard boy with a hard life and her passing couldn't make it any harder, he reasoned. Now he could be completely solid, completely rock hard in his heart, because now, now he didn't have to think about the fact he didn't love anyone, or hate anyone, he could just - be. Cold, safe and alone.

Just the way he wanted.

1

'Oh gosh, it's such a shock. Such a shock. So terrible.'

'Horrific, ain't it?'

'Terrible, terrible. Who'd have thought something like this could happen hey?'

'Show ya Marge, this sort of thing happens anywhere. It don't discriminate like.'

'I know, but - to someone we know...I mean, you never think it, do you?'

'No indeed not. Tis shocking alright.'

'Poor girl. And the boy, what about the boy? What'll become of him?'

'I don't know Marge, I don't know. He can't be that old is he? P'raps the social will take him. You'd imagine they would, best thing for him.'

'Yeah, I suppose...'

'How's he holding up anyway?'

'Oh I don't know, it's hard to tell you know...He hasn't cried or nothing...'

'It's the shock I expect. Yes, the shock.'

'I dunno Pat, he's always been a bit...you know...'

'Come love, don't worry yourself. There's lots to do. It's been a big shock for us all. A nice brandy is what's in order I'd say, come on, let's go have a looksee eh? There's a good girl.'

Seb listened to the voices outside the bathroom door. They faded gradually down the hallway, dissolving into the general murmur of the flat. He looked at himself in the mirror. He wasn't a bad looking boy, he knew that because people were often telling him, old ladies in shops and at bus stops, the queers in the street who whistled and cat called after him at night, the teenage girls who huddled in groups near him and giggled when he glanced their way. He also knew he was weird, and the neighbours thought so too. They regarded him with suspicion; though hardly clean cut themselves they saw him as something peculiar, something strange and wild. Wild though, he'd once heard a man on the radio say, was something mindless and natural. Feral, the man had said, was that which knew the horror of being tamed, and chose not to be. Long ago Seb had decided that was what he was; not wild, but feral. Like a cat, or a mustang.

He eyed his face. He had a bruise on his left temple, not too large but very dark, a sickly shade of yellow and purple. He'd got it from a local copper a few days ago when he'd been caught stealing a bottle of vodka from the off-licence. He'd had a black eye at the time, from a fight, but that was gone by now, a small cut on his cheek the only evidence of his pugilism.

He splashed water on his face and stood back. He looked thoroughly and utterly ridiculous in this suit, he knew. It wasn't his of course, it belonged to a cousin from Kent who'd brought it knowing Seb wouldn't have one. He'd watched the boy change into it in the bedroom and tried to insist he share the contents of his hip flask but Seb, having lived with the man for a year (and run away from him twice), had half a mind what could be in it and steadfastly refused. He had tried to insist, to force him, but Seb, though smaller and not as strong, had fought back and caused such a racket that the cousin had left him, in fear the other funeral guests would arrive to see what was going on.

It was far too big for Seb, who had pulled the trousers up as high as he could to stop them dragging on the floor, and had rolled up the sleeves to uncover his hands. He looked lost inside it, drowned in cotton and polyester and the whiff of stale sweat and cheap cologne that made him want to retch. He wasn't a short boy by any means - if anything he was tall for his age - but the cousin who owned the suit was a large man in every way and on Seb it bagged and sagged in all the wrong places.

He sighed. He just wanted this day to be over. For all the nosy, interfering guests to go back to the shitholes they'd come from and for him to get on with his own life.

They were only here for the scandal anyway. None of them had shown the slightest jot of interest in him or his mother when she'd been alive. Now she'd died a horrible death and the papers were reporting it, they were in like flies, out of morbid fascination and curiosity. Only a handful of working girls were there genuinely and they were huddled together in a corner, talking in terrified whispers, each one petrified she would be the next.

He sighed again and opened the door, stepping out into the hallway of the flat they lived in over a dark pub that did its business in more questionable trades. It was small, packed full of people swanning between the kitchen and the sitting room with cans of beer and glasses of cheap wine. He made his way to the sitting room, ignoring the sympathetic smiles. He knew they weren't genuine. He was just a subplot in the macabre story of death and degradation to them. He took a seat quietly in the corner, clasping a can of cider as a prop between his knees.

Someone had arranged a little memorial to his mother, four or five small photographs of her, none of them taken in the last ten years and none of them featuring Seb. There were three cheap wreaths made of plastic and fabric, a small statuette of the Virgin Mary in the centre, hands spread and head bowed as if dismayed by the ugly fake flowers surrounding her.

One thing Seb had learned from his mother's death was that her name was Angela. Angela Mary Daly. He'd had to identify her body in the hospital mortuary. It had been surreal, the harsh lights, the sterile silver surfaces. Dolly's body, bloated and swollen, her face various shades of purple and blue, her body covered in cuts and bruises, old and new, lying lifeless on the slab. They had closed her eyes and mouth and cleaned her up somewhat from her original state; Seb had seen the crime scene. He had asked the police to show him the pictures. They had hesitated at first, refusing. They had said he would be scarred, it was inappropriate. He had insisted he wanted to see. They told him it was confidential, evidence, for police eyes only. Eventually one young PC who'd taken pity on him let him have a look.

'Only a glance mind,' he'd said, 'And don't you go telling no one. I could lose my job you know.'

There had been Seb's mother, thirty four year old white female, bloated, beaten and dead.

He'd left then, hitting the local mini mart and the high street tattoo parlour. He was underage of course, but like everything else in the area the parlour operated on a don't-ask-don't-tell basis. Now he had the beginnings of a tribal sleeve tattoo on his right shoulder. He didn't really know why he'd decided to do it. He'd just had his mother's purse and felt like it.

He shifted uncomfortably in the oversized suit and polished off the cider, tossing the empty can onto the coffee table behind the pictures and wreaths. The Virgin maintained her beatifically sorrowful countenance at his disregard for religion and ceremony.

'Alright sonny?' Father Mulligan, the priest who had performed the funeral mass, seated himself next to Seb, clasping his hands in his lap.

Seb was perfectly alright, he just wanted to be left alone, but he knew he couldn't say that. He shook his head. Father Mulligan blew hard out of his mouth.

'Such a shock,' he murmured. 'The whole community is just...shaken...' He shook his head. Seb said nothing, pulling at the cuffs of his shirt.

'You must be...I can't begin to fathom how you must be feeling,' the clergyman said. 'I understand if you don't wish to talk right now...but if you do need anyone, any time, you know where to find me...I am here for you son.' He placed a thick veiny hand on the boy's shoulder. 'I'm willing to help in any way I can...I can only imagine how hard this must be for you. Poor, poor child.' He squeezed Seb's shoulder. Seb winced, the priest's fingers pressing into his fresh tattoo. He nodded. Father Mulligan sighed again, muttering about the senseless waste of human life. Seb waited for him to leave.

'Would you like a drink son?'

Seb shook his head.

'I'm going to go and get one. You will remember what I said, won't you?'

Seb nodded.

'Good lad.' Father Mulligan gave his shoulder a final squeeze and heaved himself to his feet. Seb watched the old priest lumber out the door, limping slightly. People milled about the sitting room, nodding sympathetically in Seb's direction then looking quickly away, unwilling to maintain eye contact. They left him alone, occasionally glancing in his direction as they murmured to one another. A large dark haired man in the opposite corner boomed, talking animatedly to a group crowded around him. Seb watched him, his vast, meaty arm around the short, stumpy woman at his side. He was Norman Trench, the owner of the pub below. He'd let Dolly operate on his turf, for a cut, and had waived the odd few pounds off the rent when things were particularly tight. Seb also knew he was a drug dealer and fenced goods for local youths. But he'd always been good to Seb, bringing him food from the pub and letting him play on the pool tables for free. He'd taught him to appreciate Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd and had got Seb his job in Peter Clarke's garage.

Norman glanced over at Seb and saw the boy looking at him. He said something to his companions and broke away, making his way towards him.

'Alright Seb?' He said quietly.

'Alright Norman.'

The large man took the seat beside him that Father Mulligan had left.

'Bet ya can't wait for all this to be over eh?' He nodded around the room. Seb shrugged. Norman was the only person who got Seb in any way. He didn't judge; he wasn't afraid of him. Seb, however, got Norman perfectly.

'If - if you need any extra work or anything,' Norman said slowly, 'I've got a few hours going in the pub...'

Seb nodded. He wouldn't be able to keep up the rent without his mother's money coming in, he knew that.

Norman nodded. 'It's such a - it's awful,' he said, 'your mum. I don't - I really can't get who'd want to - who'd do that to her. She was a nice woman. Troubled, but she meant well poor girl.'

Seb shrugged. Norman eyed him, concerned. He'd always been an odd boy, always polite to Norman, and helpful, and by all accounts a hard worker, but Norman knew there was more underneath. At fourteen he had savagely beaten an older boy so badly the boy had landed a week in hospital, two days of that in the ICU, and a few permanent scars. Seb had been lucky the boy had been in possession of such a hefty lot of crack cocaine that neither he nor his parents decided to press charges. Nonetheless, Seb had inflicted a hell of a lot of damage on the boy, smaller and slighter though he was. Norman had taken Seb in after the assault, cleaned him up, nursed the handful of superficial wounds he had received in the attack. He didn't know why the fight had started, but he did know what Seb was capable of and now, two years later, a foot taller, a couple of stone heavier from hard work and manual labour and still with that savage, unpredictable look in his eye, Norman was worried. It wasn't that he feared what the boy would be like now he was alone - Norman knew Seb's mother had hardly been the most calming influence in Seb's life - but one never knew what death could do to a person, especially the death of a parent. People reacted to it in the most unexpected, unprecedented ways sometimes.

'Do you want me to get this lot out?' Norman nodded at the murmuring guests again. 'Give you a bit of time to yourself?'

Seb nodded. 'Cheers Norm.'

'Don't mention it kid. You know where I am anyway, come down for a bite later if you feel hungry, yeah? Alright everybody,' he said loudly, clapping his hands together. 'This party's moving downstairs. Drinks and sandwiches await, come along now...'

Seb watched as Norman rounded everyone up and ushered them out the door, casting the boy a wink as he left. Seb stared blankly back.

As soon as they were gone he stripped off the ridiculous too-big suit and pulled on a pair of baggy grey tracksuit bottoms, leaving his top half bare for his skin, flushed and warm from his tattoo, to cool. He had another tattoo on his left side, on his bottom ribs. In beautiful round hand it read, "Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today." He had heard a teacher read it in a poem once, years ago. He had never been good at schooling, never stayed in one place long enough to settle down, rarely showed up, and was usually in trouble when he did. He had no exams, no qualifications, and was sure he had learned nothing from school but how to give another boy a good kicking, but he had remembered that one line, burnt into his mind and carried it in his head for years, until he had finally had it inked into his skin. He wished he knew who'd written the poem, but he had no idea where to look and no one he could ask. No one he knew knew the first thing about poetry, and they'd probably laugh and call him queer if he asked. Well, except Norman, Norman would never laugh at him. But poetry was most definitely not the big man's forte.

He made his way into his mother's room. Like the rest of the flat it was dark and shabby, the light coming through the grimy single pane window barely lighting the corner it shone in. Seb wondered why it bothered at all.

The bed was unmade, the duvet a tangled mess on top of the sheets. The chest of drawers was piled high with broken make up pots and perfume bottles. Seb walked towards it, guessing that what he was looking for was probably in there. He pulled open the top drawer. His mother's socks and knickers lay before him, jumbled up together. He stuck his hand in and felt around, pushing it right into the corners, groping and grasping only at flimsy bits of material. He sighed and closed it. He went through the rest of the drawers systematically, with no joy. He stood up from the bottom of the chest and started as he caught himself in the mirror behind the bed. He laughed at his own jumpiness, shaking his head at his reflection.

He proceeded to scour the bedroom top to bottom, but he found nothing but dirt and a few used needles. He slumped against the bed, sliding to the floor, staring at the door. His thoughts were racing, every corner and crevice of the flat going through his head. It had to be somewhere, he thought, hidden away somewhere in the flat. It wasn't that big. It couldn't take him long to find it.

He began in the kitchen, emptying every cupboard and drawer, searching the oven, the biscuit tin, the coffee jar, everywhere you couldn't see at a glance. Nothing.

He tore the bathroom apart, knowing that the permanent damp in the room meant it was unlikely to be there, but he had to look just in case. He was right.

He searched the sitting room, pulling the cushions off the settee, the covers off of them, the radio, the old VHS player. Not an inch of the room was left unscathed.

That only left his bedroom. He hesitated, not wanting to believe his mother could have risked doing that to her own son, knowing full well she would have.

He tore it apart furiously, every centimetre, his pillows, mattress, drawers, bags. As he pulled out the old free standing wardrobe there was a dull thud. He looked behind; nothing. Throwing open the doors he crawled in and scrabbled about amongst the clothes, feeling the back of the wardrobe and remembering tales of Narnia he had seen on TV as a child. If only, he thought. Suddenly, the bottom of the wardrobe creaked. He clambered back, but too late, crash, the bottom rose to meet him. A flurry of dust flew up, blinding him. Coughing and spluttering he scrambled out, scratching his chest and arms as he pulled himself from the inside. Wiping his eyes, he looked down. His face fell in horror, fury rising in his throat.

He had never hated his mother before. Now, he despised her.

2

Melanie Trench was a smart woman. A nurse by profession she was, in every way, respectable. It was a shame, she thought, that the same couldn't be said of her husband. Never had she had much, if any contact with such people as his tenants and employees, thugs and thieves, whores and drug addicts and dealers and criminals of varying levels, until she'd married Norman. Now it seemed two days couldn't go by without her dealing with or playing host to them. Most of them she had no time for, and her help and hostess skills were only employed when her husband pleaded and persuaded her, usually with reminders of what some of them were capable of. The children, however, she felt for. In twenty five years of marriage she couldn't count the number of them she'd seen born to good-for-nothing parents incapable of looking after themselves, let alone another human being, who'd had little or no education and had grown up to live exactly the same lives their parents had, whether they knew them or not. Even the ones whose parents did love and try to provide the best for them usually turned to crime or drugs, just because their peers were doing it, and it was all they knew. A few had put their heads down, got jobs or an education and got away, but Mel was sure she could count them on one hand. Seb, she figured, was one of those. He was an odd boy, he had no real friends and spent most of his time alone, but then, she thought darkly, that was probably the best thing if you wanted to stay out of trouble around here.

He treated everyone he didn't know, and most of the ones he did, with suspicion, and was no angel. But he was also a worker and stayed away from drugs, so he must at least be hoping to make something of his life. Not unimpressive considering his background. For that, Mel admired and wanted to help the child. Her husband, too, had a soft spot for him. He'd told her he saw the boy something like a stray cat he was unable to tame, but he could feed and keep an eye on. The Trench's only had one child, however, a daughter who lived abroad now, and Mel knew Norman's rough affection for Seb and the other boys he employed was more than just pet-rearing. He had a habit of picking up the waifs and strays who turned up, orphaned or effectively orphaned, doing his best to look after them, helping them to get jobs and places to live and the lend of a few bob now and again when the going got tough.

She thought about them now, the children she had seen with no chance of a good life, the youths she'd watched throw one away, as she coaxed splinters from Seb's hand, trying her best not to hurt him. She pressed cotton wool and hot water on one embedded in the fleshy pads of his palm to try and induce it closer to the surface. He winced.

'I'm sorry dear,' she said. 'I'm trying my best...'

Seb nodded. He had the most fabulously blue eyes, she thought. They reminded her of the movie stars she had fancied as a girl, the first boy she had ever kissed at a dance when she was sixteen.

Norman was pacing up and down the centre of the pub, shaking his head.

'I don't get it,' he was saying. 'I just - I can't - what was she thinking?'

'Do you think she was dealing?' Seb asked in his quiet, solid voice.

Norman shook his head. 'Nah, nah I'd have known about it, she was rubbish at keeping secrets your mum, two drinks and she'd be telling the world and his wives every detail of her private life. Plus, there's not much goes on around here I don't know about. I reckon,' he said, lowering himself into the booth beside his wife. 'I reckon she was holding it for someone, looking after it. Stupid girl.' He shook his head. 'The thing I've been trying to figure out is - who?'

Seb shuddered as Mel drew the last splinter out of his hand and began bandaging it up.

'Did she have a new pimp, or a new fella?'

Seb shrugged and shook his head. Norman stood up and started pacing again.

'How much is there?' Seb asked.

Norman blew out of his mouth. 'Close to ten kilos I'd say. Not quite, but close.'

Seb lowered his head. He was absolutely furious with his mother for hiding it in his room. If it had been found - if the police had gotten wind - that was a lot of drugs. That wasn't possession for personal use. That was intent to supply, and it would have been him that would be in trouble. And Seb was under no illusion that his mother would have taken the rap for him.

'I was going to destroy it,' he said. 'But there was so much...'

Norman stopped, leaning on the edge of the booth. 'Thank god you didn't,' he said. 'Christ you'd have been in a whole world of trouble if you'd done that.' He shook his head. 'No, no, someone will come looking for that, believe me. The best thing you can do is hide it, and when they come you hand it over without a word and lick their shoes clean if that's what they tell you to do, you get me?'

Seb ingested this for a moment. He pictured the bundles and bundles of white powder tightly wrapped in polythene sitting in his bedroom. He thought of his mother and her blatant disregard of him and felt the anger swell again. He looked up and looked Norman right in the eye.

'I don't want that stuff in my house,' he said.

'Well you don't have to do anything with it, just wear gloves when you're handling it and wait until whoever owns it -'

'I don't,' Seb said again, slowly and quietly. 'Want. That stuff. In my house.'

Norman stared back into his eyes. They were so bright, and yet there was something in them, something deep inside he couldn't quite put his finger on, but it perturbed him deeply. He realised then exactly why Seb had come to him. He sighed.

'Look Seb, I can't shift that stuff. It's not mine, I don't know whose it is, and it could be more than all our lives worth to do so. I may deal in some less than kosher stuff now and again but I would never, ever pass on stolen drugs.'

Seb shook his head. 'I don't want you to sell it,' he said. 'I don't care what you do with it. I just want it out of my house.' He looked at Norman with wide eyes. 'Please.'

'Seb I -'

'Oh for god's sake Norman,' Mel said brusquely, snapping the lid of the First Aid kit shut. 'Get the damn stuff out of the boy's home.'

'But Mel,' Norman said in surprise, 'you're always bitching if I keep stuff on the premises -'

'His mother has been killed,' she said pointedly. 'The last thing he needs is a pile of drugs in his house. Can't you see it's upsetting him?' She motioned towards Seb.

He didn't look anymore upset than he normally did, though there was a palpable sense of foreboding emanating from him.

The real reason Mel wanted her husband to remove the drugs from the flat was that she was concerned what would happen if he didn't. The boy had gone sixteen years without touching anything stronger than paracetamol and she would be damned if that changed now, right under her nose. True she hated Norman keeping illegal goods on their property, and the thought of them and who might own them frightened her, but they hadn't had any real problems with the law in a few years and she was willing to risk it, Seb was so adamant he did not want them where he lived. Frankly, she didn't blame him.

Norman still looked unsure.

'I'm getting rid of it one way or another,' Seb said evenly.

Norman's face dropped. 'Seb, mate, you can't do that. When whoever owns it comes looking for it - and believe me they will - they'll - they'll break your legs or smash your face up. And that's if you're lucky.'

Seb shrugged. 'When they come, I'll know nothing about it. It was mum's after all.'

Norman laughed. 'Oh! Oh!' He said in a high, mirthless voice. 'Oh if only! Oh really, if it were that - ! These aren't reasonable, democratic people Seb! You can't have a nice, amiable chat with them, explain the circumstances and cheerily wave goodbye! They won't give a shit whether you know or not, and they will try and get it out of you. You know the sort of people you're dealing with here Seb, you've seen the stuff they do, murder is the pleasant end of the stick! Just keep the bloody stuff somewhere safe and when they come for it, give it to them and keep your trap shut!'

Mel paled at her husband's words. 'Norman,' she whispered. 'Can't you just take the stuff?'

Norman rounded on his wife. 'And have them come after us?'

Seb sat calmly, unaffected. 'I'm getting rid of it,' he said flatly.

'Seb!' Norman said shrilly, 'You don't know whose it is! What they could be capable of!'

'I don't care,' Seb said. And he didn't. He could take care of himself. He might not have a gun, but he was pretty adept at employing other things as weaponry to defend against them and he knew Norman knew it too. And any trouble Seb caused was trouble on Norman's turf, and trouble for the publican from every side. Norman looked again into the young man's eyes and knew he was defeated. Seb did what he wanted to do as always, and Norman was going to have to row in behind him. He sighed and ran his hands through his hair, defeated.

'I'll have one of the boys come up and collect it in the morning,' he said.

Seb nodded and stood up. 'Thank you Norm,' he said.

Norman shook his head. 'As soon,' he said, 'As soon as someone comes looking for that stuff you say you haven't seen it, but you know who has it, and you bring them straight to me. Straight to me, do you understand?' He stared hard into Seb's eyes. Seb looked levelly back. 'That is what you do. Nothing else. Do you get it Sebastien?'

Seb nodded. He got it, but he wasn't promising it. He stood up, unfolding himself from the booth. He was still topless, his lean muscles glittering in the lights of the pub.

Norman sighed. 'You want anything to eat kid?' He asked, relaxing a little now he had a plan. 'There's a veggie lasagne I can heat up for you if you're peckish.'

Seb shook his head. 'No thanks Norm, I'm fine.' He turned to Mel. 'Thank you Mrs Trench,' he said.

Mel smiled gently at him. He was such a handsome boy, she thought. It was such a tragedy he'd been born into this life and not a better one.

'It's no bother love,' she said. 'You can take them off in a day or two, they should be fine.' She nodded at the bandages on his hands.

Seb looked at them for a moment, then turned and made his way back outside. Norman sighed in frustration and sat down. His wife gathered her equipment.

'I'm glad you did that Norman,' she said. 'The last thing that poor child needs right now is more stress.'

Norman shook his head, an ominous feeling curdling in his gut. 'I want to help him Mel,' he croaked. 'But he's a strange kid. He's trouble. Trouble.'

'Don't be silly,' Mel said, returning the First Aid kit to its place behind the bar. 'He's one of the smart ones. He's a bit odd alright, but he's decent. He wants to make something of his life.'

Norman did not respond. He knew better than to argue with his wife, but he had an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach.

When he went to bed that night he lay awake long after Mel had fallen asleep, Seb's big blue eyes hovering before him, trying desperately to place that mysterious look in the boy's face. He drifted off eventually, still puzzled, still frustrated, and more than a little concerned.

*

Seb lay awake, staring up into the darkness. The couple next door were having loud and vigorous sex up against his bedroom wall but he'd already pumped himself dry listening to them and now it was just beginning to get on his nerves. They were like this every Sunday; he came back drunk, they had a blazing row and ended up fucking loudly against the bedroom wall. These were usually one of Seb's favourite days of the week, but tonight it just irked him.

He rolled onto his side and looked at the wardrobe, still wide open. Even in the darkness he could make out the little bundles of powder, cocaine or heroin or whatever they were he didn't know, and didn't care to. They seemed to glow, almost dazzling in the dimness of the room. He got up slowly and approached it, bending over to pick up a bundle. He knew he shouldn't touch them, but one would be no harm, and this one was burst already. He remembered the foul, bitter taste on his lips and tongue. The bitch, he thought. The cold, heartless, calculating bitch. He weighed the little bundle in his hand. It was heavier than it looked.

Angry again, he made his way into the living room. He threw up the window and leaned out to survey the road below. It was empty but for a couple he could just about make out in a gap between the laundrette and the grocers, at it hard up against a wall. From nowhere a gang of teenagers appeared, legging it around the corner. They broke the quiet with wolf whistles and jeers as they passed the shagging couple and disappeared down the street, yelling after each other.

Disturbed by the disruption the pair broke apart, the man tucking in his shirt, the woman fixing her skirt. He said something to her and an argument began, their voices carrying through the stillness to Seb's perch on the windowsill. Slowly, he unwrapped the bundle in his hand. The powder began to crumble as the plastic loosened. With a flick of his wrist he released the contents into the night air. The breeze whisked it upwards like a flurry of snowflakes, and dropped it dramatically. Through the drifting particles he could see the man slapping the woman across the face. He imagined they were his mother's ashes, fluttering into the city, glowing orange under the streetlights, and gone. He crumpled up the polythene and dropped it.

'That's what I think of you,' he said aloud. In the quietness of the street his voice sounded loud and strange. It was strong and deep, a man's voice. He drew himself in from the window, closing it tight behind him, and headed back to his room. The couple next door were still at it, calling each other's names loudly. The slapping sound of flesh on flesh carried through the wall and Seb lay down on his bed, feeling himself getting hard again. He took off the bandages on his hands, stole another look at the remainder of the drugs and thought of the two people against the wall in the street. He slid his hand inside his pants and closed his eyes, thinking very, very hard about nothing.

3

Seb arrived half an hour late for work on Monday. He had been waiting for someone to collect the stash and had been just about to throw it all in a bag and dump it in the river when Michael, one of Norman's barmen, arrived. No one had noticed he was late, or even that he'd arrived at all - he'd never been one for a big entrance - and it was nearly midday when Peter Clarke, the boss, stumbled across him working away quietly, cleaning the jets of a scooter carburettor with a guitar string.

'Seb,' Clarke said in surprise. 'What are you doing here?'

Seb looked up, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand, leaving a streak of black across it.

'Working,' he said.

'Well I can see that.' Clarke rolled his eyes. 'I meant - why? I told you you could have the week off.'

Seb shrugged. 'I felt like it.'

Clarke shook his head, suppressing a smile. 'You could have let me know you were here,' he said. 'I have my nephew in to fill in for you. If you'd told me I could've told him to bugger off, useless sod that he is.' He tilted his head. 'You sure you're alright to stay on?'

Seb nodded. Clarke pursed his lips thoughtfully. He eyed the moped Seb was working on, a silver 2010 Honda Elite. Seb had a thing for bikes and scooters, he liked working on them, and best of all for Clarke, he was good.

'Come here.' Clarke motioned with his head. 'Something I want to show you.'

Seb rose slowly, wiping his hands on a filthy rag. He followed Clarke outside and around the front to a second garage. This one was busier than the one Seb had been working in, full of noise and chatter. There were two cars, a brown 1965 MGB, abandoned now, presumably by Clarke, and a battered looking ten year old Toyota being tended to by Billy, a large Irishman who had a penchant for singing while he worked. Today it was Meatloaf.

On the far side two younger men, not much older than Seb, were carefully dismantling a large black motorbike. They were tall, muscular and blond, the twins, Graham and Andrew.

'Alright boys,' Clarke greeted. They glanced up. 'How you getting on?'

'Not too bad,' one of them said, straightening up. 'She's fairly well worn though. Lots of work needing, a new engine I'd say, and -'

'It's OK,' Clarke cut in. 'You two can take lunch now. But before you do, find that bloody nephew of mine and tell him he can go home will you?'

The twins nodded, glancing curiously at Seb. 'Well go on then,' Clarke barked. 'I said you could take lunch. Unless you want to work right through?'

They traipsed off. Clarke shook his head in amusement. 'You'd think I asked them to dip their balls in acid or something,' he said. 'Anyway,' he motioned towards the bike. 'What do you think of her?'

Seb eyed the large black machine. 'XJR1300,' he said. 'Solid machine. Not as good as the Honda CB, but a cool bike. Heavy, 240 kilos at full tank. Plenty of torque, thirty four miles or so to the gallon, zero to -'

'Yes, yes,' Clarke said, waving a hand. 'We know you're an encyclopaedia of motorbikes Seb. What I meant was, what do you think?'

Seb looked at him, unsure what he was meant to say. 'I...think they're cool,' he said.

Clarke laughed. 'This one came in Friday.' He patted the seat. 'Ten years old, twenty four thousand miles on her. Almost everything needs replacing I'd say. She's a lot of work. Not really a profit maker. I'd be paying more to fix her up than I could sell her for. Not to mention the parts, and the few quid I already paid.'

Seb frowned. 'Why'd you bother?'

Clarke laughed again. 'You don't get it, do you?'

Seb shook his head. Clarke stepped away from the bike. 'She's for you.'

Seb's eyes widened. 'You're to clean her up mind,' Clarke added. 'I'll let you have the parts but the work's all yours, on your own time OK?'

Seb nodded, astonished at his good fortune. 'And you're not to ride her till you have your licence.' Clarke looked sternly at his young employee. Seb nodded eagerly. They both knew this last request was not going to be honoured, but Clarke had to say it anyway.

'Thank you,' Seb said breathlessly. 'She's beautiful.'

Clarke smiled. 'I thought you might need cheering up. And when she came in on Friday I thought, that's the ticket. I remember how you were with old Alf Carpenter's one.' He winked.

All the men had been obsessed with Alf Carpenter's brand new model when he had been in a few months before after crashing it on his very first outing, taking it in turns to spin her round the empty patch of grass behind the garage. It was the most relaxed and happy Clarke could ever remember seeing his youngest apprentice.

Seb stared at the bike in wonderment. Clarke checked his watch. 'Well you might as well go for lunch now too. You'd better not touch her till the twins have finished taking her apart.'

Seb was disappointed. He'd been looking forward to spending an hour fiddling with the bike.

'Go on then,' Clarke said in a mock-stern voice. 'Get.'

Seb headed to the office, a two-room pre-fab at the front of the lot. Graham and Andrew were already there, feasting on tubs of pasta. They looked at Seb as he came in, exchanging a smirk. Ignoring them, he made his way to the fridge, taking out a bundle of tin foil. He had made himself a limp white bread tomato and cheese sandwich. He took his food and a place in the corner by himself. The twins ate and drank tea, leafing through a tattered looking newspaper, making the odd comment here and there about the stories and pictures contained within.

'Well fellas, how are we all today?' Billy strode in, his big oily arms swinging as he walked. The twins greeted him jovially. Billy made his way to the sink, pulling off his gloves. 'You should take a look at yer one outside,' he said, scrubbing at his arms. Seb wondered why he bothered, when he was only going to go out and get dirty again in an hour. 'Fiiinnee set of fun bags...'

The twins looked up, craning their necks to see out the window.

'Phwoar,' one of them said, standing up.

'Nice,' the other one agreed, getting to his feet. Seb concentrated on his sandwich.

'She's something, isn't she?' Billy grinned.

'I'd give her one,' one of the twins said.

'Yummy mummy,' the other one said. 'Nice pins.'

'Don't let her hear you saying anything like that.' Billy laughed, wiping a towel on his arms. 'She's not a mummy far as I know. Just divorced there recently.'

'You gonna get in there then Billy?' One of the twins teased.

Billy laughed, a big belly laugh that shook his whole frame. 'Don't think I'm her type somehow. Bit rough for her lot.'

'Oh, every girl likes a bit of rough.' Graham tilted his head as whoever was outside moved. 'Even high class birds need a bitta down and dirty now and again. Keep em in touch with the common man.'

'High class ride too,' Andrew said admiringly.

'Pete's not going to let us anywhere near that,' his brother sighed. Seb crumpled up his tin foil and rose.

'Hey Seb,' Graham said mockingly, 'What d'you think? Smash it or not?'

'Seb doesn't have sexual urges,' Andrew sneered, curling his lip as the younger boy passed him. Seb ignored him. He filled up a glass of water from the tap, knocked it back and strode out of the kitchen wordlessly.

'Freak,' one of the twins said behind him.

In the yard Peter Clarke was talking to a woman. Seb saw what the others had been slobbering over; she was very good looking, shorter than Seb, with a head of glossy dark hair. She had big sunglasses that obscured her eyes, vibrant red lips and full breasts jutting out in a floaty polka dot dress.

Clarke glanced over. 'Seb!' He called. 'Come here.'

Seb approached slowly. He tried not to stare at the woman as he ambled over, lowering his head as he reached them. She was very beautiful, well dressed and impeccably groomed. He was sure he'd never seen a woman like her before in his life; she looked like someone from a movie. She smiled at him, a row of pearly teeth flashing through her lipstick. Seb blushed.

'This is Seb, my youngest lad,' Clarke said. 'Seb, this is Mrs Carswell.'

Seb mumbled hello.

'Jessica, please,' she beamed.

'Seb's going to help work on your motor, Jess,' Clarke said. 'Aren't you?'

Seb nodded. He eyed the car over Mrs Carswell's shoulder, a silver convertible Aston Martin DB5, as beautiful and stylish as its owner. Seb gazed at the car in awe.

'Still got the 1964 eh?' Clarke was saying. 'One valuable car.'

'She was John's engagement present to me,' the woman replied. 'It belonged to his father. I'm only the second owner.'

'Beautiful car,' Clarke murmured. 'Expensive...'

The woman laughed. 'So's divorce! I hate to let her go, but that's life I suppose...I might buy myself a Triumph, I've always had soft spot for them...My father-in-law just sold a '61 E-type Jag, it's always such a shame to have to part with these cars...'

They were off, Clarke and Mrs Carswell chatting animatedly about vintage cars. Seb stood silently by, in awe of the lady and her car, about which he himself knew very little. Clarke, who loved women nearly as much as he loved cars, was in his element.

The twins clambered out of the office, staring at Mrs Carswell and the Aston.

'Um, Pete, we're off to the shop,' one of them said, not taking his eyes off the dazzling woman who looked so out of place in the garage lot. 'We just wondered did - did you want anything?'

'No thanks boys,' Clarke replied. 'Don't you want to go and do your own thing for a while?' He said to Seb as the twins traipsed away. Seb shrugged and backed away slowly. The woman turned her brilliant smile on him. He scurried away as fast as he could, his face on fire.

He returned to the Honda in the garage, working furiously on the bike. Mrs Carswell's face burned in his mind, the thought of working on the car filling him with a feeling he could only liken to excitement. Annoyed, he pushed her out of his mind and concentrated on the bike, losing himself gladly in his work.

*

Night fell quickly on the city. The sky was clear and cloudless, letting all the heat escape. Seb scurried beneath it, a litre bottle of vodka concealed inside his hoodie. He'd gotten away with it this time, the man in the off licence distracted by an old woman who wouldn't stop asking about cocktail ingredients. It was cold on his chest, seeping through his t-shirt. He followed his breath, hauling himself over a tall iron fence, trailing through a crowd of high trees that blocked out the sky, emerging onto a grassy hill. He stumbled to the top, pulling his hood up over his head. He reached the summit and turned, surveying the city below him. The lights twinkled like a reflection of the night sky, the buildings, at this distance, short and squat.

Shivering, he threw himself down on the ground beneath a gnarled old oak. He propped himself up against the trunk and took a swig from the bottle. The liquid burned his lips and throat. He rejoiced in the feeling.

This park was several miles away from Seb's area, the neighbourhood surrounding it smart and respectable, tall, warm townhouses full of laughing professionals hosting dinner parties full of fine wines and fancy cheeses and lines of sparkling cocaine that helped fuel the violence and prostitution that Seb lived with every day. Sometimes he went to his local park, with its broken swings and condoms, beer cans and shopping trollies, but there he often ended up in a fight, with the homeless whose beds he was invading, the bored youths with nothing else to do, the drunks stumbling home from the pub. Sometimes, that was why he went.

Here, he could be alone. There were no through roads for late night revellers to stumble along, no stoned teenagers looking for trouble. Occasionally he'd seen an amorous young couple scramble over the fence for an al fresco tryst, and once a pair of rent boys laden down with gin who'd been of the same mind as Seb, but usually on the occasions he came to this park he was alone, just the way he liked it.

He loved the outdoors, the feel of fresh air on his skin, the birds and squirrels and trees and organised chaos of nature. He had spent a few months in the country as child, on the dales of York, fields of Devon, even a couple of weeks in the Scottish highlands when his mother had had the idea to reunite with her estranged sister. It hadn't worked.

He had roamed the towns and fields by himself, fascinated by the cows and sheep, drawn to the horses and sheepdogs. He liked the freedom and the emptiness, the lack of buildings and people. He liked the animals especially. He had rescued a kitten from a river when he was ten, nursing it to health with food he'd stolen from the supermarket, milk he'd smuggled from the volatile "uncle" he'd been living with. He'd been shipped off not long after that, back to Dolly. He'd never got to say goodbye. He hadn't cried, but he had feared for the tiny cat, abandoned again, by the one person it relied on.

Animals were company, friendly and affectionate, but silent. They didn't question or insult you, exploit or injure you. They needed you. Wanted you.

Seb took several large swigs, his stomach protesting the neat alcohol assaulting it. Animals, he understood. They did what their bodies told them to, they didn't have to dazzle or impress, didn't worry what others thought of them, and nobody thought they were weird. On the other hand, animals died like any other living thing and as he knew himself, sometimes you got separated from them, so overall, machines were better. He understood machines the same way he understood animals, as objects and creatures that ran as they were built to, without any of the pathetic whims of humans. He thought of his work on bikes and cars the same way he'd thought of looking after the kitten, that giving it the right care and attention, putting the correct materials into it, would get the right result out. Clarke had often marvelled at Seb's apparent natural talent for mechanics, but it was all logic to Seb; you needed to put care and effort in as well as tools.

Slugging hard from the bottle, he looked up towards the sky. He'd spent six months in foster care when he was eleven. The family, a Mr and Mrs Butler, had been nice. The other kids he'd lived with were not. There'd been one boy in particular, a rat faced child called Phil who'd hated him, and one day, after watching a movie about a diamond heist, he'd told Seb that stars were, in fact, diamonds, and that if he climbed to the top of the tree in the back garden he'd be able to grab them from the sky. Seb hadn't been convinced at first - if it was that easy why didn't the men in the movie do that? - but Phil had come up with so many answers and, two years older than Seb, insisted he knew more, till the younger boy was eventually persuaded. With the other children watching he had scaled the tree until suddenly the branches became too weak to bear his weight and snap! Crack! Crash! He had come clattering down, landing himself a broken arm, a sprained ankle and the derision of the other children.

He'd been furious. Broken arm or no, straight on return from hospital he set upon Phil's sneering face, leaving the boy bloody and bruised, probably with a broken nose, and two missing teeth. He hadn't remained long after that.

He gazed up at the sky through the branches above his head, gulping on the vodka. He looked at the trunk and branches, mentally surveying the knots and thickness. Tucking the bottle into the waistband of his tracksuit he leapt onto a root, grasping a branch overhead, and hauled himself up. He went up again, and once more, into a fork where the branches became thin. Snapping the twigs that blocked his view he surveyed the city sprawling out below him, sparkling and beautiful from this height, a twinkling blanket laid at his feet. At this distance he could almost like it.

The air was sharp and cold, stinging his face. He felt like God, reigning over the city below. He was just like God, he thought; God answered to no one. God was alone. God, Seb thought, slugging on the bottle; God did not exist.

4

'Oi you, you fucking vagrant piece of shit! Get the fuck out of there!'

Seb started awake. Somewhere over his head someone was thrashing about, tearing through bush and hedge. Hands, large and rough, descended, snatching him by the front of his hoodie. Blinking in the light he felt thorns scratching his face and chest, a sharp stone slamming into his hip, knees, shin.

A foot, presumably in some way connected to the hands, thundered into his ribs. He tried to curl up to protect himself but the kicks were coming hard and fast, punctuated by curses and swear words spat from the body's mouth. A hand grabbed him again, hauling him up by the front of his top, and with a sickening crack of knuckles the second one drove into his cheek, splitting his lip and the inside of his mouth off his teeth.

'You can't sleep in my fucking park,' the voice screamed. 'You get that, you stinking little shite?'

The hand landed again, open this time, Seb's head snapping back as the flat palm walloped across his face. They let him go, dropping him back to the ground. He curled up, clutching his stomach.

'Go on, fuck off,' the voice said, booting him hard in the rear. 'Fucking junkie scum.'

Seb scrambled to his feet, staggering away from the angry voice and hands, limping down the hill as fast as he could. The early morning light was bright and hurt his eyes, the blood from his lip and cheek filling his mouth. He spat, the thick bright red spraying the ground and the sleeve of his hoodie.

The gates of the park were open so he didn't have to haul himself over the fence this time, hobbling into the street clutching his tender, throbbing stomach. He turned towards home, pulling his hood up to conceal his bloody face, aware that he looked out of place in this, the nicest of neighbourhoods. He plunged his hands into the pockets of his top and strode homewards, limping slightly from a cramp in his leg.

His limbs loosened with the exercise. Gradually the streets became less leafy, the buildings closer to the road, greyer and less well groomed. He stopped in a cramped newsagent's and bought a bottle of milk, heaving himself onto a wall to drink it. The wall was next to a school, a couple of early arrivals kicking a football between them, shouting which player they wanted to be. Seb watched them. He didn't like football. It bored him, and he saw what the players got up to in the papers, heard the guys in the garage talking about them, the people on the radio debating it. He had nothing but contempt for them; though rich, there was something about them that reminded him of his mother. They were pathetic.

He took a swig of the milk and returned the steely gaze of a fussy Jewish mother ushering her children past. He smiled, showing a mouthful of bloody, milky teeth.

He drained the bottle, tossing it into the schoolyard behind him. Hopping back to his feet, he set off again. The morning was in full swing now, the sounds of chatter, the radio, the traffic joining the smells of the bakery and laundrette filling the streets. Sloping through the crowd at the bus stop Seb noticed the telltale colours of the emergency services outside Norman's pub. Getting closer, he edged his way through the small crowd that had gathered by the ambulance, making his way to the door that led up to the flats. There was a small man in uniform blocking the doorway.

'What do you want?' He grunted, looking Seb up and down with a look of distaste.

'I live here.'

The man shook his head. 'Can't come in,' he said. 'You'll have to wait.'

'Seb! Seb!'

Seb looked around. Norman thundered towards him, belly wobbling theatrically under his hastily donned tracksuit. He took in Seb's dirty clothes, bruised and bloody face, the reek of BO and vodka.

'What the hell have you been up to?' He demanded. He shook his head. 'No, don't bother. I don't know why I even ask.'

'What's going on?' Seb asked.

Norman sighed. 'David Jones. Dead. Fran found him this morning, 'parently his dog wouldn't shut up.' Norman shook his head irritably. 'Dogs aren't even bloody allowed.'

Seb saw the medics coming, carrying a stretcher down the stairs. It was covered, the long lump underneath obscured by a blue blanket.

'Dud gear?' he said.

Norman shrugged. 'Could've been anything,' he said. Seb knew it couldn't.

As the stretcher was loaded into the back of the ambulance, Seb headed inside.

'Oh Seb,' Norman called after him. 'The police were here last night looking for you. To do with your mum I think.'

Seb nodded, not turning around.

'Don't you have to collect her ashes today?' Norman added.

Seb sighed. 'Yeah. Yeah, later.'

Norman watched the boy's back disappear up the stairs. 'If you need anyone to bring you,' he called, but Seb was gone. Rolling his eyes, he sighed heavily and stamped off.

Seb took out his key and slipped it into the lock. Two doors along David Jones' flat was sealed off, the door wavering slightly on its hinges. He lowered his head and let himself into the flat, as if he were returning to an angry parent after staying out all night. He laughed hollowly to himself. He should be so lucky.

The milk in the fridge had turned and the cupboards were empty but for a loaf of bread, a packet of rice cakes, a box of salt and a bottle of vinegar. Snatching the bread he tore through the plastic and began shovelling slices into his mouth. His stomach cried out for the food, welcoming it with loud groans and gurgles. He worked frantically, as if it could be snatched away at any moment. On the table his phone blinked silently. He picked it up. There were two missed calls, both from Peter Clarke. He tossed it back down and returned to his breakfast, the bland, tasteless bread turning to a gooey mush in his mouth. Two minutes later he tossed aside the empty plastic, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his top. He made his way to the bathroom. His face was bloody, his lip swollen, but at least he didn't have a black eye this time.

Stripping off slowly he left his bloody, muddy clothes in a heap and stepped into the shower. The water was hot and sharp against his skin, turning his flesh bright red. He let it blast his face, clamping his eyes shut against the heat.

His mother's ashes. He'd totally forgotten he was to collect them today. Lathering shampoo into his hair he thought, with no little hint of satisfaction, how horrified Dolly would be if she could know she'd been cremated. An avid Catholic in her own way, she was against anything that "desecrated" the body. Everything except hypodermic needles and cocaine, he thought. She'd left something of a will, not legal of course, detailing what she wanted for her funeral and burial, but she hadn't exactly left the funds, so he'd gone with Norman's suggestion of cremation. He thought now how he wished they could have just left her in the alley she'd died in. The animals would have had a field day. They deserved her life more than she did. He wondered what they did with ashes if they weren't collected. He could probably sell them, he thought, eighty pounds a gram. You are what you slam into your veins after all.

He stepped out of the bath and towelled himself dry, his body a map of bruises and red blotches. He could hear his phone ringing again, muffled through the bathroom door. He ignored it.

Seb left the crematorium with Dolly's ashes under his arm, feeling like he'd stolen them. On the bus people tried to talk to him, eyeing his luggage with curiosity. People, he thought, were the weird ones. All he wanted to do was get on with his life.

'Oh jeez Seb, there you are.' Peter Clarke's face was the picture of relief as Seb trotted into the garage, looking rough but at least alive. 'I've been trying to get hold of you all - what's that you've got?' He nodded at the grey plastic container. Seb held it up with a shrug.

'Mum,' he said.

Clarke's face changed. 'Of course,' he said softly. 'I totally forgot.'

'I'll put them out of the way,' Seb muttered, heading for a shelf.

The twins, who were helping Clarke strip Mrs Carswell's Aston, exchanged glances.

'Ain't she a stunner?' Clarke said as Seb returned, pulling on gloves.

'Just like her owner.' Billy's voice rumbled from under the bonnet of a neighbouring car.

Clarke smiled. 'Jessica Carswell's some lady alright.'

'What's she do then?' Billy called. 'Lunch a lot?'

'She's an artist,' Clarke replied.

'New gear box,' one of the twins said. Clarke scribbled in a notebook he was holding.

'She was married to a judge, supreme court or something I think. Whole family's loaded. Seb, what are you doing?'

'Need to replace the prop shaft,' Seb replied.

'You look a fucking state,' one of the twins said.

'Graham,' Clarke said sharply.

Graham shrugged, not taking his eyes off the younger boy. 'He does.'

'He always bloody does,' his brother concurred.

'Well we're a garage, not a fucking model agency,' Clarke shot. 'If that changes you'll be the first to know, but until then as long as you show up and do your job, I don't care what you come in looking like. You can come in like the flipping elephant man for all I care. OK?' Clarke shot Seb a sympathetic half smile. Seb didn't notice, or really care, his attention devoured by the innards of the car.

Shrugging inwardly, Clarke returned to supervising the boys' stripping of the car, punctuating the work with tales of his own apprenticeship, which he had completed in an Aston Martin restoration workshop. Seb wondered why the woman hadn't gone there instead, and not to Clarke's Vintage Car Repairs and Restoration. Still, it was a baptism of fire for the young mechanic, and the chance to work on such a car under the beady eye of Peter Clarke was too good an opportunity to miss.

As they worked Clarke informed them about the car itself, and what his plans were for it. Seb listened intently, ignoring the occasional vicious look shot his way by one or other of the twins.

'The last DB5 I worked on the alignment was shagged,' Clarke was saying. 'It'd been crashed at one point, and the bloke who'd patched it up was obviously no expert, the chassis -'

Seb let out a yell. From a few feet above him Andrew had dropped a spanner, crushing his fingers into the concrete floor. Clarke stopped.

'It was an accident,' Andrew said. 'I dropped it.'

Clarke mouthed silently, a look of pure astonishment masking his face. Seb sat back on his haunches, clutching his knuckles with his other hand. Clarke's face changed.

'What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?' He shrieked. His voice was so loud and furious every one of them stopped.

'Don't you understand how important this job is? This could be the fucking making of you lot! She requires care, the gentlest of fucking care and attention and if you are incapable of doing that I'll just go and find a bloody team who are! Children! Children, the fucking pair of you!' He slapped his notebook shut with a loud clap. 'D'you know what, get the fuck out of my sight. Go home. All of you, go home. And when you come back tomorrow you all better be ready and willing to work hard, and together, or I'll have your arses on the street, and if you don't believe me, just fucking try me!'

The three boys stared, stunned. None of them had ever seen Clarke, casual, laidback Peter Clarke, lose the rag before.

Clarke took a deep breath. 'Seb,' he said. 'Get to my office. You two,' he addressed the twins. 'Store those parts properly and carefully and get your arses home to your mother. I'll see you tomorrow morning.'

He turned on his heel and marched out of the garage. Seb rose slowly to his feet, massaging his knuckles. Andrew elbowed passed him scowling, clutching the car's radiator.

Seb made his way into Clarke's office, the room opposite the kitchen. It was a functional room, a desk, laptop, filing cabinets and shelves of books on car maintenance and repair. Clarke stood in the corner of the room. He rubbed his forehead and nodded to a chair.

'Seb,' he sighed. 'Sit down.'

Obediently, Seb took a seat in front of the desk. Clarke settled down opposite him. He ran his eyes over the boy's face and sighed. 'You do look rough kid,' he said. 'I know you're not having an easy time of it at the moment but you can't be going around fighting...'

'I wasn't fighting,' Seb said dully.

Clarke shrugged. 'Well, whatever you're getting up to Seb, it's not good for you...The twins were right, you do look rough. I'm worried about you.'

'I can take care of myself.'

'That's what you think. But you're still a child.'

'Old enough to live on my own,' Seb said defensively.

'But not to pay the bills.'

Seb looked at him. 'I can pay the bills,' he said. 'I have money here, and Norman's offered me a few hours in the pub.'

Clarke shook his head. 'You can't sign a contract is what I mean. But anyway, that's not the point.' He waved a hand. 'You're my best boy you know, bikes even aside. And with this Aston I can't afford to have anything happen to you. This could go for half a million if we do it right, and our name on it. I know you and the twins don't see eye to eye, but I need you to get on at least at work. To tolerate each other.'

'They hate me.' Seb folded his arms.

'They don't hate you they just - don't know what to make of you,' Clarke said. 'Neither do I, but that's neither here nor there. I just want you to do your job and do it well, that's all I care about. What you get up to in your spare time's no concern of mine, unless it affects your job. Fighting,' he jabbed a finger at Seb, 'will.'

'I wasn't fighting,' Seb repeated.

'I don't care, but whatever you've been getting up to, it's got to stop. Anymore black eyes Seb, and you'll be on bikes for the next five years. Alright?' Seb shrugged. 'I'm not joking,' Clarke added. 'And I know you had to collect the ashes today but really mate, answer your bloody phone will you? I was worried you know.'

Seb shifted uncomfortably, dropping his hands to his lap.

'Do give us a bit of notice next time you're going to be late, or not turn up at all. I'm concerned you know, this business with your mother...do the police have any leads?'

Seb shook his head. He doubted they were looking too hard though, it wasn't like they placed a premium on the death of prostitutes, and there wasn't exactly public uproar to compel them.

Clarke shook his head. 'Horror, ain't it, thinking whoever did it is out there on the loose eh...' He shuddered. Seb shrugged.

Clarke looked suddenly uncomfortable. 'Well, ah - that's it then,' he said, getting to his feet. Seb leapt up. 'Just - remember what I've said OK? And be careful.'

Seb nodded.

'And yeah, just - ignore the twins. They're jealous you know, they're older but you are - better. More natural. Just - yeah, just ignore 'em OK?'

He gave a slight nod and cleared his throat. 'Well, I'll see you tomorrow then.'

Seb nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets.

'Don't forget your mum,' Clarke called as he slipped out of the office.

Seb collected the ashes and set off towards home. It was a nice day, the afternoon sun bringing a bit of bright and warmth to the grey streets. He thought dreamily of climbing into bed, the comfort and warmth, a nice kip after a good -

'Well well well, if it ain't Santa's little helper.'

'Teacher's fucking pet ey?'

Seb looked up. He'd been distracted; he hadn't noticed the twins stepping out of the newsagent in front of him. They stood either side of him, leering. Seb's first instinct was to fight, but though each twin was only two or three inches taller, they were broader, and there were two of them. Plus, he remembered what Clarke had just said.

'Have fun in Peter's office?' One sneered, pressing Seb's shoulder with his finger. 'Suck him off good and proper did ya?'

Seb began to walk. They trotted alongside him, sneering.

'Heard your mother was good at that Daly.'

'Yeah, she'd even do it for free I heard, she was that mad for cock.'

'You gonna follow in her footsteps? I hear they're always looking for skinny little boys to fuck down Shore Street.'

'Yeah, they'd love you Daly. Mind you, you'd love it too, all those queers stuck in all your holes, you'd be in your fucking element wouldn't -'

Seb flung his arm suddenly. Through the air his mother's ashes flew, soaring several feet and coating the twin on his left, head and shoulders. Andrew spluttered and coughed, his face rigid with shock.

'What the fuck is that?' Graham gawped.

'Dead prostitute,' Seb replied. Then, before the twins could react, he ditched the plastic box and ran.

5

It was eleven o'clock and the pub was buzzing. A young singer had just died and everyone was talking about it, speculating how and why, the 24-hour news channel in the background replaying clips and shots of her life and Michael and a regular, Paddy Whyte, were discussing her talent and attractiveness. Seb listened silently, drying pint glasses. He didn't know if the girl was talented - she was a good singer, he supposed, but then his mum had been too. He didn't think she was that attractive either but he wouldn't admit that to the other men, who were talking about her sexiness and the tragedy of her death. The greatest tragedy, Seb thought, was that the girl had died from the same dodgy batch of junk that had killed David Jones - not officially, but there was no doubt in the pub, and if anyone knew what the girl had been on, it was Norman Trench's clientele - but no one had even mentioned him, not even gossiping. Prostitutes being murdered were mildly interesting for five minutes, the death of a famous singer for several hours. The death of a random junkie from contaminated gear was hardly worth a mention.

'Yeah, she's a fine pair of legs on her alright,' Paddy said, taking a long draught of his bitter. 'Not unlike that little girlfriend of yours Mickey. She's keeping well I hope? You,' he barked at Seb. Seb looked up under his eyebrows. 'You have a girlfriend?'

Seb shook his head.

'Why not?' Paddy said in his sharp, booming voice. 'At your age you should be bating into anything that moves. Listen to me sonny, take everything you can get, cause one day you'll be my fucking age, and who'll shag you then? Not even yer own wife!' He roared with laughter, as if it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard.

'Seb, can you go and see if Norman needs anything?' Michael muttered.

Seb put down the glass he was drying and glanced around the bar. He wondered how much Norman was shelling out to keep the filth out of the place. It couldn't look anymore stereotypically suspicious if it was full of cartoonish Mafioso smoking cigars.

Norman was to be found in one of the back rooms, his laughter booming around the small, musky-smelling lounge. He sat with a slim, bald man in chinos and a stripy polo shirt, laughing jovially along with Norman. Around them, boys in tracksuits stood looking surly and tough. They glanced at Seb as he entered. One of them stepped towards him.

'It's alright, he's one of mine,' Norman said.

'Johnny.' The bald man waved a hand. The boy stood back.

'What's up Seb?' Norman nodded at him.

'Um.' Seb glanced around. 'Michael wants to know if you want anything.'

'Yeah, yeah I think we might,' Norman said. 'Paulie?'

'Ah, a brandy for me if you will Norm,' the bald man said. He eyed Seb curiously.

'A brandy, and a pint of stout for me then Seb,' Norman nodded. Seb turned to go. 'Oh wait.'

Seb stopped.

'Seb knows Mrs Carswell, don't you Seb? He works for Peter Clarke,' he added to the bald man. 'Doing up the old Aston of hers.'

The bald man smiled an enormous toothy grin. 'That's a treat for a young fella,' he said.

'The car or the woman?' Norman replied. They laughed again.

'Frankie Bowman's kid is in shit,' Norman said.

The bald man rolled his eyes. 'What's new? What's it this time?'

The conversation was stilted, altered because of his presence, Seb knew.

'Go fetch the drinks will you good laddie?' Norman nodded at Seb. He turned back to the bald man. 'Oh the usual stuff, drugs and stupidity.'

Seb trotted back to the bar, through the grunting, swaggering hard men and harder faced prostitutes and returned with the drinks. As he pushed the door open he caught a snatch of conversation.

'...a good million worth at least.'

'So everything's sorted then, the fourteenth it is?'

'Indeed. She'll be out all night at the opening so it's perfect.'

'What's left that we need to sort then?'

'A bloody big van.'

The room echoed with laughter. Seb stepped in.

'Sean Og's dad here is going to help with that,' the bald man was saying.

Seb lay the drinks down on the table and took the empty glasses.

'Maybe we should have someone at the gallery,' Norman said.

'Oh I've got that covered,' the bald man winked. 'Never know, might even chance my arm and get her into bed,' he chuckled. 'Post divorce, on the rebound. What sort of knickers do you think the lovely Mrs Newsome wears?' He sniggered. The boys around the room followed his lead. Seb turned to go.

'You,' the bald man shot. He stopped. 'You're Dolly Daly's kid right?'

Seb glanced at Norman. The big man made no gesture. He turned back to the bald man and nodded. The man nodded, looking the boy over appraisingly. Seb waited, unsure whether to go or not. The bald man turned to Norman.

'Looks a lot like his dad, don't he?'

Seb's stomach tightened. He had never known who his father was. Never cared to. But the idea that some stranger did and he did not annoyed him. Norman didn't respond. The man took a draught of his drink and nodded.

'You can go.'

Seb stepped out of the room, pulling the door tight behind him. He returned to the bar, plonking the empty glasses onto it.

'I'm finishing,' he said to Michael. Michael raised his eyebrows.

'Already?'

Seb shrugged. He took a handful of peanuts from a bowl and turned to go. He paused. 'Michael,' he said.

'Mmm?'

'Who's the man in with Norman?'

Michael's eyebrows fell. His eyes flickered towards Paddy, who was engrossed in conversation with the person beside him.

'Just some fella,' he said.

Seb nodded slowly, knowing from Michael's reaction that the bald man was not just "some fella."

'Any particular kind of fella?'

Michael narrowed his eyes. 'Seb,' he said quietly, 'I'd've thought you of all people would know better than to ask questions.'

Seb shrugged. Back in the flat he poured himself a tumbler of vodka. He leaned against the sink and took a long draught, blinking as tears pricked at his eyes. In the dim, flickering light the kitchen looked more depressing than anything he had ever seen, the chipboard cupboards peeling and rotting, the stained linoleum floor. There was rust on the sink, paint peeling from the damp on the ceiling. The oven, rarely used and never cleaned, was rusted and dirty, smeared with grease and fat.

Outside, voices shouted and laughed. There was a loud crash. Seb didn't have to look to see the gang of youths drinking and blasting music from their mobiles. They would rob a car, or smash some windows, terrorise a few old ladies - not here of course, this was Norman's turf, but further up the road, where the streets were even darker and dirtier. They'd probably kick around a few homeless, geared up junkies, maybe cut up a cat or a dog. They'd have knives and broken glass, and mobile phones bearing witness to all sorts of previous crimes. One might even have a gun. They might not be quite at that level yet, still swaggering arrogantly with only blades and broken bottles hidden underneath their tops for now.

Seb poured another glass, eying the stained and chipped worktops, the cheap fold up table and mismatching chairs. This was it, he thought. This was what his life came down to. A peeling shambles of a flat and a glass of vodka, alone. This was it.

*

The week passed quietly. The twins did not say a word to Seb, preferring to communicate their feelings in sharp glares and violent movements when he was near. Seb viewed this as an improvement on the usual sneers and comments on his sexual preferences. He threw himself into work on the Aston, spending his lunch hour and the early evenings patching up the large black Yamaha. She was a beautiful machine, he thought. No, not beautiful; beautiful suggested a certain grace or elegance - this bike was pure man, beef and muscle and bravado. He could almost feel it throbbing under his touch, growling hungrily between his thighs as he tore through the countryside, fields zipping by in a blur of green and brown, the roar of the engine filling his ears, his own body and the bike fused in one, them and the road the only things that existed, him and the machine the whole world.

'She's coming along nicely,' Clarke said one evening. He'd taken to glancing in on Seb in the evenings, to look over the bike and remind him to go home. Seb nodded, wiping off his hands as he climbed to his feet.

'Say you'll have her ready and raring to go in a couple of weeks.'

'Yeah.' Seb nodded.

'Well, you'd better hurry along, I'm locking up now. The old lady's having her folks around for tea and I tell you, I'll get some scolding if I rock up in these old rags.' Clarke laughed. Seb followed him out of the door obediently.

'You working for Norman tonight?'

Seb nodded. Clarke hesitated. 'He uh...he doesn't make you do anything...anything, y'know...illegal, does he?'

Seb shook his head. Clarke looked relieved. 'Good good,' he laughed, in a feeble attempt to sound like he'd only been joking. 'Wouldn't want you ending up in the hands of the filth now, would we?'

He didn't need to be in the hands of the filth, Seb thought darkly. He already lived in its bowels.

'Will you be working late?'

Seb shrugged. 'Midnight maybe.'

'Do you ever sleep?' Clarke chuckled.

As they walked, rain began to fall. Seb pulled up his hood. Clarke squinted up at the sky.

'Lovely night,' he muttered. 'Want a lift? Wouldn't fancy walking back in this weather. I know you take the long way too, don't you?' Seb nodded. Clarke sighed. 'Go on, hop in.'

Seb climbed gratefully into the passenger's seat, vaguely blocking out Clarke's casual chatter. He stared through the window as they drove, his heart beating in time with the windscreen wipers. These were streets he barely knew, never walked down. They were lined with small shops, some closed up, others cramped and brightly lit, between cracked windows and walls decorated with colourful, inartistic names and slogans. Even though it was raining there was a gang of boys, all young, though at varying stages of youth, trotting through the downpour, their hoods and shoulders raised against it. Seb did not come home this way, though it took half the time of his usual route. These boys were the reason why. He was part of no gang, though his association with Norman afforded him protection from some, and made him a target for others. This lot would try to rob him, and when they realised he had nothing of worth would beat him up and leave him to chance. Not just would; they had. He knew better than to tempt them to do the same again. Five of them were already in prison, two for burglary, one for grievous bodily harm, the other two for rape and arson. The rest were well on their way to the same. Not one of them was yet twenty one.

'Well, here we are.' Clarke pulled over, parking the car in a space at the back of the building. 'Hmm,' he said, peering at the piles of empty beer crates. 'Maybe I should pop in and have a chat with Norman.'

He followed Seb into the pub. It was early evening and trade was getting started, a football match on one screen capturing the attention of most of the punters. Norman, leaning on the bar in deep conversation with Paddy Whyte, looked up and hailed them with a booming greeting and hearty hugs.

'Seb,' Norman said, slapping him on the shoulder. 'Some grub?'

Seb nodded. He took the veggie lasagne Norman had sent out for him and wolfed it down eagerly. Norman was providing him with dinner nearly every day and just as well, for otherwise he'd be back nicking tins of beans and packets of biscuits from the supermarket, like the time his mother had run off with a boyfriend when he was fourteen, leaving him five pounds and a packet of soup. By the time Dolly had been dragged back, bloody and bruised, he had five pounds worth of scrumpy and was surrounded by stolen mini pizzas and tinned spaghetti. As it was now, he was living on bread and slices of processed cheese. If it wasn't for Norman's pub meals he knew he'd be starving, though the vodka took the edge off any hunger he felt in the evening.

He hoovered up the lasagne and washed it down with a pint of bitter Michael had slipped him. Though it had taken him only minutes to wolf down his meal, Clarke was already gone and Norman was ushering a boy not much older than Seb, lugging a heavy gym bag, into the back.

'Fancy a new phone?' Michael chuckled quietly as Seb joined him behind the bar. 'Sam Carlos's just come in with seventy iPhones.'

Seb shook his head.

'Sure? I'm getting one, forty quid, how could I say no!'

The night passed without incident. Seb watched Michael closely to learn the ways of the bar. Shortly after midnight Norman told him to go home and get some sleep and he slipped out the back, snatching a bottle of dry gin as he went, Norman's booming laugh from the bar telling him the publican was otherwise occupied.

It had stopped raining by now. Seb raised his face towards the sky and inhaled deeply, savouring the cool smell of the world after the rain. He turned away from the building and sloped off. He would not go to the local park tonight; he could see something burning there, and hear the cheers and whoops of the kids doing it. He headed instead in the direction of the hill park. It was a warm night, the streets glistening in the half moonlight. He trotted along, chugging greedily from the bottle. Turning down Shore Street he zipped his hoodie up to his chin and tucked the gin inside it.

'Alright lovely?' A man winked at him as he passed. Seb blanked him. A group of rent boys on the corner eyed him suspiciously. Did they think he was one of them? He nodded curtly. They stared back.

The fences of the park loomed in front of him, every few feet glittering orange and black. Slipping the bottle back out of his top Seb followed the fence around, searching for the spot he usually climbed over, that was low on the street side, the fall on the park side cushioned by squat evergreen bushes that were also good for hiding bottles in when you couldn't manage to drink them all.

Casting a furtive glance around to ensure the street was clear, he tucked the gin into the waistband of his tracksuit and snatched the spikes of the fence, hauling himself to the top. He froze as the sound of a car purred several yards up the street. It stopped, a door opened. Reassured, Seb began to lower himself down when the sounds of voices made him stop again.

'...and the wine especially, that made the night.' A loud giggle. A deep murmur he couldn't make out.

'Well of course the company was lovely too...no we mustn't tonight, I'm up early and you know - until the divorce comes through -'

More murmuring. A car door slammed.

'Oh come on, don't be like that Alfie, we've been through this, you know -'

The car drove off. There was a sigh.

'Twat.' The clip clop of high heels.

Seb hesitated for a moment. A short moment. Then he leapt lightly back onto the street, his trainers making a soft "pfft" as he landed. He kept to the shadow of the trees that lined the street as he stole forwards, ducking so he could see the other side. At the top of the steps leading to the door of the end townhouse a woman was rummaging through her bag. The porch light highlighted her cheekbones and lips, pursed in frustration as she rifled. Seb slipped from behind his tree to the next one, and the next. Flash, flash, flash, a skirt bouncing, long bare legs - click click \- and she was gone.

He shot across the road. In the bay windows he saw her backlit figure move through the sitting room to a cabinet. He watched as she poured herself an overlarge glass of something dark and sank onto a sofa, running her free hand through her hair. In the window he could see her, her hair gleaming in the soft glow of lamps as she let it down, brushing her fingers through it. It was not sleek and perfectly groomed like when she had been in the garage, but he liked it, the thrilling suggestiveness of tousled hair and flushed face. He watched as she poured herself a drink from the cabinet, swinging and sashaying to the rhythm of his heart banging on his eardrums.

She took a sip from her glass, her lips moving mutely, though her glittery voice played in Seb's head like a private radio tuned permanently to her. She jerked suddenly, dashing for a corner of the room, disappearing from view. Seb's heart leapt in panic, but she reappeared a moment later, talking on the phone. She propped herself against the mantelpiece, her curves displayed to maximum effect as breasts, waist, hips sloped gently in and out in her casual lounge. Seb stared hard, imprinting the image, the glorious vision, onto his mind.

'Well well well, what have we got here?'

The voice behind him made him jump. He twirled around, ready to fight, but too late; a fist made cracking contact with his face. He staggered back, clutching his nose. Blood streamed over his fingers, into his mouth. He looked up, eyes stinging, every sinew of his body burning for a fight.

'If it ain't Mr Shit Hot himself,' one twin sneered, advancing towards him.

'What are you doing around here?' The other twin jeered.

'Looking for something to rob no doubt,' his brother replied. 'Stinking little thief he is. You know he nicks booze from Tommy's shop?'

He smiled horribly at Seb. Seb glared at him. Andrew launched towards him. Seb dodged, the punch landing on his ear instead. He staggered backwards from the blow, his head thundering. He wiped the blood from his lip with his sleeve, spitting a mouthful of it onto the ground.

'What are you doing here?' He snarled. 'Fantasising about what you'll never have?'

The twins exchanged nasty grins.

'Oh we have here,' Graham said.

'Some of us get classy birds you see,' his brother added.

'Some of us get birds,' the first sneered.

'Some of us like birds,' the second sniggered. They both laughed.

Then suddenly they were upon him, fists and feet flying, pounding into his face and legs. He thrashed back at them, ready to do them every harm he could but there were two of them, bigger, older, stronger. One grabbed him, snatching his hair in a thick fist, yanking him backwards and down. His brother stuck his foot in, blinding pain shooting through his body as a heavy work boot landed in his crotch. Tears spilled from his eyes, mixing with blood as his face slammed onto a broken patch of concrete, slicing open the side of his cheek. Another shoe caught him in the face, filling his mouth with blood and dirt, his head crashing into the root of a tree. Blows rained from all over, into his ribs, stomach, legs; it was all he could do to cover his head, protecting it from the pavement and road, his elbows taking the impact instead. Bile rose in his throat, wave after wave of nausea coursing through his stomach.

They were gone as suddenly as they had appeared, their heavy boots pounding the concrete as they ran. Seb rolled onto his side, gasping. Pain permeated every part of his body, his eyes streaming with bloody tears. He turned gingerly onto his hands and knees, heaving his stomach into the street. Sweat and blood dripped from his face, splashing into the orange and red lumpy mush of vomit in the gutter.

He sat back, gasping, leaning his back against the tree. Pain seared through his chest with every breath. He raised a hand to his face. His nose was broken, he reckoned, flinching as he touched it. His hand shook.

'Hello? Who's there?'

His heart lurched. That voice. That voice.

'Hello, is there someone there?'

Her face appeared suddenly, pale and glowing in the darkness, her torso obscured by a large green bag. She glanced around, then dropped the bag, her shoes clattering as she ran towards him. He tipped his head back, blood gushing down the back of his throat.

'Oh goodness, look at you.' She crouched beside him, her breasts level with his face. He blinked blearily at them, then up at her face. Her brow was furrowed, lips pursed with concern.

'What ever happened?' She pulled her sleeve over her hand, dabbing against his face. He flinched and jerked away as pain shot through his cheeks.

'Oh gosh, I don't know what to do,' she flustered. She bit her lip, eyes running over his bloody face and clothes.

'Oh come on, come with me, come on.' She took his arm, lifting it around her shoulders. He went with her, stumbling to his feet. He could feel himself shaking, like he'd just emerged from an icy river. Pain pounded his face with every heartbeat. Using her as a prop, her arm around his waist, his chest pressed against her shoulder, he staggered towards the house. She was so warm, he thought dreamily, like a radiator.

She led him up the steps, gently and delicately, as if he were a China doll. His head swam with pain and disbelief.

The brightness of the house hurt his eyes. He squinted, his head and face throbbing as she led him through the house into the kitchen. She ushered him into a chair, fussing about for hot water, a bowl and salt.

'...a first aid course once,' she was saying, her voice a welcome sound even to Seb's pounding ears. 'But that was with the boat club back in uni, yonks and yonks ago now...'

Her kitchen was lovely, he thought. It was bright and fresh. Everything seemed to be white, but not hospital white, more like what Seb imagined a fancy farmhouse might look like. The table was covered in paper, scattered drawings and sketches, and newspapers stacked on top of each other. On the wall two small paintings hung, though he couldn't quite make out what they were.

He flinched suddenly as warm water stung his face.

'I'm sorry,' she said anxiously. 'I'll try to be gentle.'

She dipped some cotton wool into the bowl and dabbed it lightly on his face, wiping off the blood and dirt. He gritted his teeth through the pain, even when she dabbed at his nose.

'Somebody beat you up,' she said.

He nodded.

'Why?' She looked at him, pale, almost grey eyes searching his face. She was so beautiful, he thought, every part of him aching.

'You look familiar,' she said, wiping his cheek. Seb's heart leapt into his throat. 'Do you live around here?'

He shook his head.

'Hmm.' She dipped more cotton wool into the water. Beside the bowl the discarded wool sat, red and brown with blood. 'Do you think - maybe I should call the police? Or I should take you to the hospital, I mean I'm no doctor, you probably need -'

'No,' he said. His voice was thin and scratchy. 'I'm - I'm fine.'

She frowned. 'You don't look too fine honey. You've just had the shit kicked out of you.'

When she swore it made Seb's breath short. In her upright tones it sounded far worse than anyone he knew swearing.

'I - I feel OK,' he insisted.

She raised her eyebrows, her forehead wrinkling and smoothing again as she lowered them.

'I'd feel much more comfortable if I could bring you to the hospital,' she said.

'No. Please, no.' Seb didn't want to go to the hospital. He hate, hate, hated hospitals, and it would mean - he was here, in her house, in her kitchen. She was touching him. These were not moments that came often or lasted forever. He couldn't believe his luck, and he wasn't about to let it go.

She looked like she was struggling with herself, mentally sparring with her conscience. Finally, she won.

'What's your name?' She asked, sitting back in her chair. For a moment Seb considered lying, but he told himself that was stupid. She knew Peter Clarke after all.

'Seb,' he said in his newly rough voice.

'Seb,' she said pleasantly. His heart soared. 'That's a lovely name.'

He blushed and looked away.

'How old are you?' She asked, gathering up the used cotton wool. She took a bag of frozen peas from the freezer, wrapping it in a tea towel. Not old enough, he thought ruefully.

'Sixteen,' he murmured as she pressed the peas to his face.

'Sixteen.' She shook her head. 'Who on earth beats up a sixteen year old?'

She sighed. 'Here, hold onto that.'

He clasped the peas to his face, hoping she wouldn't make him leave yet.

'Do you know them? Did they just jump on you?' She binned the cotton wool and made for the kettle. He shrugged, suddenly afraid to look at her, as if her beauty would burn him. She shook her head, filling the kettle from a jug.

'You'd never think anything like that would happen round here.' She pursed her lips. They weren't red today but pink. 'Did they rob you?'

He shook his head. She sighed. 'That's something at least. Would you like some tea?'

He nodded. She opened a cupboard, retrieving a couple of mugs, and opened another.

'Oh,' she said. 'I've only got green tea. Is that OK?'

Seb had no idea what tea that was green was like, but he nodded anyway. She poured out two mugs, placing one on the table beside him. She eyed his torn and bloody garb with a look of concern.

'I don't have any clothes,' she said. 'None that would fit you anyway.'

He flushed again, the thought of her clothes on his skin bringing colour to his face.

Her phone rang suddenly, a crooning pop song echoing from the sitting room.

'I'd better get that.' She stood up, looking down at the skinny, battered young boy in front of her. 'Drink up. I'll be back in a minute.'

She smiled. Seb's stomach flipped and danced. He nodded. He watched her hurry into the sitting room, her tousled hair bouncing as she fluttered off.

He blew on the tea, taking a tiny sip. It tasted weird, but maybe that was just because it was so hot. He clasped it in one hand to his chest, the heat warming his palm and torso. He gazed around the room, taking in everything he could that had to do with her, the knee high brown boots abandoned in the corner, a shiny bag on top of a coat on a chair. Seb had imagined her world to be neat and orderly, glossy and preened like herself, but here, in her house, he saw her flustered, untidy kitchen that seemed so real, that brought her to earth, to life. It smelled of spice and gentle perfume, heat emanating from a stove in one corner. He strained to hear the sound of her voice, but it was swallowed by the strange electronic music playing in the other room.

A sense of worry began to creep over him - what if she guessed what he'd been doing? What if she thought he'd rob her, what if she made him leave, or go to the hospital - he would have to leave sometime of course, but for now, now he was sitting in her house, near her, so warm and happy even the pain didn't seem so bad. This could probably be a dream.

He took another drink. It hurt to swallow. It didn't taste too bad though, he decided. It was warm, and that was what mattered. She came back into the kitchen, slipping her phone into her pocket. He sat up quickly, straightening his back and shoulders.

'Are you feeling alright?' She asked. 'You're not feeling faint or anything?'

He shook his head.

'Oh gosh, you must be in awful pain.' She rushed to a cupboard over the kettle and rifled through, emerging with a bottle of tablets.

'I'm so sorry,' she said, emptying a couple into her hand. 'I don't know why - well, it's not often you find beaten up kids outside your front door is it I suppose?' She poured a glass of water from the tap, laying it and the pills on the table by his elbow. 'They're quite strong,' she said. 'They were my - well, they're prescription, so they should sort you out.' She smiled, a soft, close lipped smile that contrasted with her eyes. He took the pills, swallowing them with a mouthful of water.

'So...' She hesitated, sitting down in the chair opposite him. 'What happened? Who did it? Were you in a fight, what - I mean - yes, I mean what happened?'

He swallowed another mouthful of the tea. She looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to reply. Really reply. His voice seemed to be stuck in his throat.

'I - was walking,' he said quietly. She nodded, waiting. 'And - two boys...' His face felt like wildfire, burning and throbbing as she watched him, eyes fixed on his face. '...jumped on me,' he finished lamely.

'Two?' She said with disgust. 'Two of them? From nowhere? With no precedent, no provocation?'

He had no idea what she meant but he shook his head. She sighed.

'What is the world coming to?' She reached for her own tea. 'Do you need to call your parents?' Seb shook his head. She frowned. 'You must have somebody you can call? An uncle, a friend? Somebody who looks after you?'

She wouldn't believe him if he told the truth, he thought. Or she would and it would upset her, and he would have to leave. He should leave, he should go home. But - he wanted to stay here, with her, for as long as he could. He shook his head, avoiding her sceptical eyes.

'Nobody? At all?' She sounded nervous now, probably unsure if he was lying or telling the truth, and wondering which would be worse.

'My parents are dead,' he said. He cleared his throat self consciously. She gasped, holding a hand up to her mouth.

'Oh,' she said. 'Oh I'm so sorry - I didn't - I never - that's terrible.' She lowered her hand to her chest. He nodded, still avoiding her gaze.

'Oh you poor boy.' She moved suddenly, as if to embrace him. Seb jerked, half-scared, half-hopeful, but instead she got to her feet, smoothing out her skirt.

'I'll take you up and show you the bathroom,' she said. 'I'm sure you'd like a shower. I'll find you something to change into. Don't worry, it won't be a dress.' She smiled. He smiled, a small, shy smile and climbed to his feet, removing the cold, cooling peas. He followed her up the stairs to the first floor, and another to the second. She rummaged around in a large cupboard, emerging with a bundle of matching blue towels.

'Here.' She passed them to him, placing her hand on the small of his back. He caught his breath, his face lighting up again. 'The shower's in here,' she said, ushering him into a large double bedroom festooned with old wooden furniture and flowers. There was an en suite bathroom that seemed incongruous beside the old décor of the bedroom.

'I shouldn't be long,' she said, stepping back. 'Take your time, there's no rush.'

He watched her go, her back retreating from the room, pulling the door behind her. He laid the towels on the bed and began to undress slowly and delicately, his ribs and stomach thumping with pain as he moved. He still wasn't sure this was real.

He stripped down to his underwear, leaving his dirty and bloody clothes in a pile on the floor. The house was eerie, seeming quiet, yet the bass of the music on the ground floor throbbed up through the walls, dull and pulsating like a distant heartbeat. He peeled off his shorts, standing naked and exposed in the middle of the bedroom. He felt bold and daring, thrilling with nerves and the excitement of being naked in a woman's house.

There was a creak in the hallway. He snatched a towel quickly, wrapping it round his waist. He waited; there was no more. He heaved a sigh of relief. It must have been the floor or something. He was stupid, all jumpy and nervy.

He showered slowly, savouring the feel of the hot water washing over him. The shower was full of bottles of shampoo and body washes, scented soap and scrubs. He squirted some from an interesting looking bottle into his hand. It was golden and gooey, like honey. He rubbed it between his hands, breathing in the sweet, almost sickly smell. He wiped it onto his body, his hand sliding smooth and slippery over his skin. Another smelled like flowers, like cut grass and the park in summer, yet another like Christmas, sort of warm and spicy, like fires and mulled wine. He went through them one by one, inhaling the scents and smells, the softness and smoothness on his flesh. He stopped suddenly, realising he must have been there quite a while. He turned the shower off and scrambled out, hoping she didn't think he'd been doing something he shouldn't. He wrapped a towel about his waist, patting his hair and torso with the second and stepped out into the bedroom. His clothes were gone; in their place lay another pile, a pair of grey cotton tracksuit bottoms, a stripey long sleeved top and designer briefs. He pulled them on, catching sight of himself in the full length mirror opposite the bed. The pants were snug and tight, cut to flatter and enhance. He clenched his stomach muscles, pulling the faces and poses of the billboard men. His torso was black and purple, a lattice work of bruises scattered across his stomach and ribs, contrasting with the deep black of his tattoos. His face was dark too, his left eye red and blue underneath, across his cheek and nose. There was a long gash down the same side of his face, from his eyebrow to his ear. He giggled; how ridiculous he looked in the close hugging pants.

He pulled on the tracksuit bottoms and top, slipping his feet into the slippers left beside the bed. He sidled to the door, peeking out. Sounds and smells wafted up the stairs, Mrs Carswell's voice among them.

'Don't be stupid Harry, what was I supposed to do?...Upstairs...Yes, you know I am, who am I supposed to be with, it's a Monday night.'

Seb slipped out, stepping quietly down the stairs.

'...God you're so paranoid, he's a kid!...Well, don't I know that.' She laughed bitterly. Seb stepped onto the lower landing.

'Look, you're being silly, he's just a kid, and he's just been -' Seb entered the kitchen, breathing in the smell of food she was stirring on the stove. She caught sight of him, her face lighting up with a nod and a smile.

'Look I've got to go Harry - yes, yes, I will \- give my love to your sister won't you?...Yes, yes, bye bye, see you.' She hung up, motioning towards Seb. 'Sit down, sit down,' she urged. He obeyed. 'How are you feeling, any better?'

He nodded, clutching the end of his long sleeves in his fists. The clothes were too big for him, made for someone not taller, but a lot broader.

'I always find a shower is a great cure for many ills,' she said pleasantly. 'You found the clothes alright anyway. Mrs Hall next door was kind enough to lend them, her youngest's just gone off to uni, that's all he left behind I'm afraid. They're probably a bit big, he's a beefy boy Jonathan, rugby player...but it's better than nothing right? I put your clothes in the wash, so don't worry, you'll have them back, just let them wash and dry first.'

He nodded, embarrassed at the thought of her handling his baggy old boxers.

'Do you like curry?' She asked. 'It's beef.'

He bit his lip, wondering whether to lie and say he wasn't hungry, or tell the truth. He opted for the truth.

'I - I don't eat meat,' he said. He was being ungrateful, he thought. She would be offended now, she would ask him to leave.

'Oh.' She pursed her lips. 'Vegetarian are you?'

He nodded.

'Well, that's no bother. I can rustle you up a wrap or something I'm sure, there's salad as well but I'm sure you don't really want any of that. There might be soup actually, let me have a look...' She crouched down to search through a cupboard.

'You don't have to,' Seb found himself saying.

She laughed. 'Of course I don't have to darling. I don't have to separate my recyclables either, but what sort of human being would I be if I didn't? There we are.'

She stood up, pulling out a colourful packet. 'Tomato and basil, that alright?'

He nodded meekly.

'It's only a packet I know, I'm sorry, I'm not a big cook. If it was my mother now, she'd have a whole roast ready no doubt, but I'm not terribly domestic I'm afraid.' She said all this as she emptied the packet into a saucepan and turned back to the cupboard. 'I have some bread in here somewhere,' she said absently. 'I'm not a big bread eater so I never buy it usually but I had a dinner party last week and I'm sure I have some awfully fancy bread I bought and never used...ah yes, here it is, spinach and caramelised onion focaccia, really, the like. It looks nice anyway, I'll put it under the grill, I'd say it'll be nicer that way.'

She pottered about, unwrapping the bread and flicking on the grill, pulling out bowls and plates and cutlery.

'Thos painkillers working alright?' She asked. He nodded. 'Good.' She nodded. 'So...so - who do you live with then?'

He shrugged.

'You must have someone, some sort of guardian, some carer or something?'

He shook his head. Her mouth formed an "o".

'You can't surely live alone?' She gasped. 'You're sixteen!'

He shrugged. 'It's legal.'

'I know it's legal,' she said, pursing her lips again. He liked it when she did that. 'It's just...you're a child...I know adults who still live with their parents, people in their twenties and thirties...' She shook her head, looking sad. He didn't like her looking sad, he thought, not when he was the cause. She looked much prettier when she was laughing.

'Isn't it hard?' She asked. 'So young...and on your own.'

He shrugged. The soup bubbled loudly.

'Oh!' She cried, rushing to whip the saucepan off the stove. 'Oh, the bread's probably burnt.' She ran to the grill, turning all sorts of knobs until it was off. 'Oh I'm so bad at this sort of thing.'

She decanted the soup into a bowl, tearing the bread into chunks on the plate.

'Here you go.' She laid it on the table in front of him. 'I think I'll have some of the curry. I haven't had any supper so it'll do nicely.'

She spooned herself a bowl of orangey gloop and sat down at the table, facing him with a smile.

'Bon appétit,' she said.

He ducked his head, afraid to look too long into her eyes. The soup was delicious, the bread even better. This was the best meal he'd ever had, he thought, though his face throbbed with every bite and mouthful.

'I know you,' she said suddenly. 'I knew you looked familiar. You're one of Peter Clarke's boys aren't you?'

Seb nodded, blushing again.

'What a coincidence! Do you remember me?'

He shook his head, eyes fixed on his soup.

'Well, I suppose I only saw you that once. How uncanny is that? I have the DB5, she's mine. Whatever brought you out here?'

Seb shook his head. 'I was - I was just walking.'

'It's a little late for walking isn't it? It's dark after all. Though you would never have thought - I mean this is a quiet area, around here - someone just getting attacked...Still, just as well I found you hey? What a coincidence. My name's Jessica by the way, Jess.' She laughed.

He glanced up. He caught her eye and looked away again quickly.

'Is it alright?' She nodded at his food. He nodded vigorously. 'You look famished. You like the bread anyway.' She smiled. He'd devoured most of it, hoovering it up without a thought.

'It - it was nice,' he said, blushing at his lack of manners.

'Oh well, at least someone appreciated the posh bread. Fancy tastes you have then?' She teased. He smiled shyly. 'Well I'm not going to ask you where you live again, that might be a bit stalkerish, but you're welcome to stay here, the spare rooms are made up...I mean your clothes won't be done till morning...and I'd drive you home but - well, I don't have a car at the moment and, I've been drinking and, well, you're still shaking you poor darling...how is the Aston coming along by the way?'

'Good,' Seb nodded. He listed off the things that had been done with the car and what stage it was at now. Mrs Carswell's face glowed.

'Wonderful,' she said when he was finished. 'You know I keep meaning to pop down and check with Pete how she's coming along but, well, I'm a terrible procrastinator. Hey, perhaps I should accompany you into work tomorrow, I could see for myself how she's coming along.'

'Oh no, no you - you can't - I can't -' Seb said, mortified at his rudeness but horrified at the thought of going into work with Mrs Carswell, the truth about his face and what happened - no.

'I can't go in tomorrow,' he mumbled. He couldn't, with his face like this and what Clarke had said before, and there were the twins. He wasn't afraid of them, but he certainly didn't fancy meeting them together again either.

'Of course you can't possibly go in tomorrow, what am I talking about? What you've just been through, you must be black and blue you poor darling. No of course you mustn't go to work tomorrow, I don't know what I was thinking. Talking and not thinking as usual.' She shook her head ruefully.

'Don't - don't you mind?' Seb said slowly. 'Mind me - here?'

'Staying? Goodness no. Bit of company's always nice isn't it? It can get lonely around here now and again.' She smiled sadly.

'You -' Seb struggled to find the words he wanted. 'You really don't?'

'Well.' She stood up. 'If I listened to my friend who was on the phone just there I should be barricading the door against anything that even smells like a teenage boy. But,' she took his plate and bowl. 'I happen to believe in karma. And I couldn't just kick out a motherless kid who's just been assaulted, could I now? Plus, how many women my age are lucky enough to have a handsome young man in their grasp?' She winked. Seb's face practically combusted; even his ears felt like they were on fire. She laughed. 'Oh I'm joking honey. I'm sorry, I shouldn't tease you, I forget what it's like to be sixteen. Fortunately.' She bustled off, tucking away the dishes in the dishwasher. 'I'm afraid I don't have anything puddingy,' she said. 'I'm supposed to be on a diet. Not even hot chocolate sadly.'

'You don't need to diet,' Seb said, his face still pink. At this rate, he thought, he'd look permanently sunburned.

She laughed. 'Aw, you're terribly sweet Seb - Sebastien is it?'

He nodded. She said his name properly, the way his mother always had.

'I knew a boy at school called Sebastien,' she said, gazing out of the window. 'He was awfully pretty...a real twat though, total bastard underneath it all.' She shrugged. 'That's always the way though, isn't it, the charming ones are always arseholes really. Don't you go growing up like that young man,' she mock-scolded.

Seb laughed.

'Now, it's rather late,' she said, glancing at the clock. It was after two a.m. Seb was surprised.

'Lucky I don't keep any particular hours so you can have a nice lie in in the morning. But right now I'd say it's bed time.'

Seb got to his feet, yawning involuntarily. He followed her out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

'My room's on this floor,' she said, stopping on the first landing. She looked up at him, her eyes heavy with tiredness. 'You're OK to make your way to the guestroom, the one you were already in?'

He nodded. She smiled, reaching out to touch his face. She brushed her fingertips lightly against his cheek, sending bolts of cold shivers through his spine.

'It doesn't look so bad now it's cleaned up. You'll have a nice scar to show off to all the girls.' Seb couldn't blush anymore, it wasn't possible, he thought. She smiled. 'Well, I shan't keep you any longer then. Nighty night.'

He nodded awkwardly, unsure how to respond. He wanted to say goodnight, but the sound seemed to stick in his throat. He ducked his head, conscious of her eyes on him, and headed up the stairs.

He undressed delicately and climbed into the bed, pulling the duvet up to his chin. The house creaked and groaned like upset innards, its joints and limbs flexing and settling. The room smelled like old ladies, must and lavender, not the sharp freshness of Mrs Carswell's perfume. He couldn't believe he was in her house, a bed in her house. She had fed him, talked to him, touched him. He would touch himself but - but this was her house, it would be...wrong. It wouldn't be right he thought, and what if she found out, would know, could read it in his face, on the bed sheets?

He rolled over onto his side, pulling the covers over his head, and drifted off to sleep, imagining her lying there beside him, in his arms, safe and warm, forever.

6

The morning dawned in a fresh blaze of pain and throbbing. Seb lay breathing awkwardly as if he had a cold. Outside a car drove past, blasting music as it went. His head thundered, every heartbeat another punch in the face. He slid his hand down under the duvet, grasping a hard on that hadn't been diminished by his dreams. He groaned. Throwing back the duvet, he climbed out of bed as gingerly as possible, stumbling across the room to the bathroom. At least it was always quick in the morning, he thought, blinking sleepily at the painting that hung over the loo, a firestorm or something, from the colours and blurs. The blurs transformed into a magnificent pair of breasts and he came quickly, dulling the throbbing in his head as well as his crotch.

He cleaned up and stretched, brushing his teeth with the lonely looking toothbrush sitting by the sink. He kept his head down as he did so, avoiding his reflection. Here, in this house, on this day, he didn't want to look at anything that was not beautiful.

He dressed slowly. From the bedroom window he could see the hill park, alive with activity. There were dog walkers, people with prams, parents playing ball and Frisbee with children, joggers. Nobody was drinking, vandalising, shagging, drug dealing. This was like heaven, he thought, like life on TV, the movies. It would be a nice life to live. But about as realistic for him as space travel.

He stepped into the hallway, running a hand through his hair, and glanced around. He could hear music coming from somewhere, the same bass heavy electronica of the night before, but it wasn't downstairs it was - he turned around, face to face with a ladder, drop down wooden stairs that led - up. Up where the music was coming from. He didn't stop to think but climbed straight to the top, stepping into a large, bright attic. It was full of stuff, all sorts of what could be junk but wasn't, newspaper clippings, pots of paint, broken records, cassette tapes, swathes of metal and fabrics, paper and glue, photographs, half and fully finished paintings propped upon easels and against the wall. The music came from a portable stereo sitting on the floor in a corner. Drawings and sketches, posters and paint spatters plastered the walls. In the darkest corner of the room stood a dressmaker's dummy, a long, glittering white dress hanging from it. The dress was stained with splashes of red, shocking against the whiteness of the dress. It could be paint, he thought, but it looked - it looked like - He crept towards it, horrified and intrigued. There was something arresting about it, something mesmerising, but horrifying too. He reached out a hand, laying it on what would be the waist. He ran it down, along the skirt, towards -

'Oh, you're up.'

Seb leapt away from the dress as if it had caught fire, heart nearly jumping from his chest. Mrs Carswell climbed into the attic, her hair tied back in a neat ponytail, shirt and shorts spattered in dry paint.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, lowering his head. He probably shouldn't be here, he shouldn't be wandering around her house, into private rooms like this. She would be angry now, she would definitely tell him to leave.

'Did you sleep well?' She advanced towards him, her breasts reaching out, straining to escape the restrictions of her shirt. He nodded, head still down, eyes on her chest.

'So, you found my secret hideout?' She joked. He blushed.

'I - I didn't mean - I thought you were - I heard the music so I thought...'

'You thought you'd stumbled into hell.' She smiled. 'Or heaven, there's a fine line between them.' She nodded at the dress. 'You were pretty closely inspecting that. You like? You'd best not touch by the way.'

He swallowed. She looked at him, the dress, him, smiling all the while. 'Well, what do you think?'

'What - what is it?' He stammered.

'Ah. Well, it's a - piece. The idea is sort of corruption and - well, the white wedding dress obviously represents innocence and the blood -'

'It's blood?' He stared at the dress, shocked.

'Pig's blood. Fake blood doesn't quite dry the same way you see. We're opening a gallery, myself and a friend. Part of the opening exhibition. Three of us are doing work themed around corruption,' she said, adjusting the dress. 'Harry's is sort of along the lines of - well, the big picture, the environment, politics. Tatty's is a bit more abstract, and mine - well, mine's more mundane and domestic. I'm just trying to figure out...' She stood back, folding her arms under her bust. 'The light. The darkness is symbolic, or was meant to be, but...' She frowned. She stepped forward, lifting the dress from the corner, placing it in the middle of the room. 'Light.'

Seb gazed at the dress. In the light it looked more eerie even than in the dark, more stark, more shocking, more...

'I'm just -'

'Light,' he said automatically. She looked at him curiously. He swallowed. 'It - it just looks - in the light.' He pointed to the shaft of light that fell through the ceiling windows onto the dress. 'It looks...it looks more...' He frowned, frustrated at his inability to find a word that expressed what he wanted to say.

She nodded, interested in what he was saying. He frowned, eyeing the dress, the way the light fell on the skirt, not quite...right. He pointed. 'The angle is wrong though. The light needs to fall from here so it shines - so it makes you look right there and like...' He trailed off, blushing. He was telling her what to do. But she didn't look annoyed or unimpressed; in fact, she looked curious. She nodded.

'You think the light should fall at angle just cleaving the bust?' She nodded again, thoughtfully. 'That still leaves the top parts in darkness...draws the eye to the detail...perhaps more darkness on top, a sharper angle...partly in darkness, the light illuminating the damaged, the corrupted part...' She was muttering to herself now, nodding, turning her head side to side, squinting and eyeing the dress thoughtfully. Seb stood quietly, savouring her voice.

'Did you ever study art?' She asked suddenly. 'In school or anything?'

He shook his head.

'Did you want to?'

He shrugged.

'I used to teach art classes,' she said absently. 'Well, I took seminars and such for undergrads when I was studying for my masters...' She gazed off, past the dress, dreamily. Seb wished he could enter whatever private little world she was in, just him and her and whatever else she liked and wanted in her world, he would take it all, just to be there with her.

She snapped back, turning to face him.

'You haven't had breakfast,' she said. 'Come on, come down and let's get something into you.'

He followed her down to the kitchen, soaking up her smell of turpentine and crisp perfume.

'Are - are you an artist then?' He asked, taking a seat at her beckoning.

She laughed. 'Well, I suppose yes, you could say that. Though everyone who creates makes art of some form. As any parent will tell you.' She rolled her eyes jokingly.

'Are you - do you have kids?' Seb blushed as he spoke, aware that it was a personal question but he wanted to - to hear her talk, to make conversation, like normal people did.

She laughed, though ruefully. 'Gosh no. Not that I wouldn't have liked - well, just not meant to be for me I suppose.'

She looked a bit sad. Seb felt like an idiot. He knew he shouldn't try and be like everyone else, he always just failed miserably. He could kick himself.

'Now, I'm sure you'll be wanting some of these.' She laid the pills from the previous night before him with a glass of water. 'And something to eat. What would you like? I have fruit, yoghurt, eggs, cereal...'

'Um - eggs. And - and could I...'

He trailed off, embarrassed to be asking for more.

'You can have it all if you want honey, I'm not going to starve you.' She smiled. His heart leapt towards her, slamming against his ribcage.

'Eggs and - and cereal please,' he said.

'How do you like your eggs?' She asked, whisking some and a carton of semi-skimmed milk from the fridge. Seb shrugged. He had no idea how he liked eggs; any time he'd eaten them before he'd just taken what he was given. He remembered Mrs Trench and her cooking techniques.

'Boiled?' He said tentatively, hoping that was the right answer, or acceptable at least.

'Hard or soft?' She rifled through a cupboard full of saucepans.

Seb felt his face combust, glowing like hot coals. He clasped his hands between his thighs, pressing his knees together. He didn't know what she meant but there was only one answer as far as he was concerned.

'Hard,' he squeaked.

She didn't even blink, as she filld up the saucepan with water and placed it on the stove.

'I rang Pete this morning,' she said, retrieving a bowl and spoon. 'Let him know what happened and that you wouldn't be in. He didn't seem too impressed.' She tutted mock-reproachfully, laying out boxes of cereal on the table. 'Said he'd warned you about getting into fights?'

Seb lowered his eyes. 'It wasn't a fight,' he said. 'I wasn't in a fight.'

'Don't worry, I believe you.' She brought over the milk and a bowl of sugar. 'I don't think he could quite believe it,' she laughed. 'That I of all people found you. It's a small world isn't it?'

Seb nodded, pouring out a bowl of Coco Pops. She dropped two eggs into the pan of boiling water. Seb glanced around, taking in the kitchen in daylight. He could make out the pictures now. They weren't paintings but photographs, black and white, one of what looked like a bookshop, a young couple sitting on the windowsill kissing, the other of a wide eyed young boy, clad only in a pair of short trousers, every bone in his torso pressing through his flesh. He clutched a bundle in his arms, a tiny baby, one miniature fist raised in the air, eyes clamped shut, mouth open in a wail.

'Did - did you take them?' He asked. She looked at them, the smile fading from her face.

'No,' she said. 'A friend of mine did. He was a very talented photographer. He died terribly young. Twenty-four. Drugs.' She shook her head. 'Would you like some coffee? I'm going to make a pot.'

Seb nodded. He watched her as she pottered about making the coffee. She reached on tiptoe for a top shelf. He had the urge to jump up and put his arms around her, feel the soft curves of her body press into his, the smoothness of her neck on his lips.

She turned around and he looked away quickly, lowering his head over what was left of his cereal.

She cracked and peeled the eggs, serving them with a glass of fresh orange juice and a mug of coffee. He wolfed them down in four bites, deciding that was indeed how he liked his eggs.

'Your clothes should be dry now,' she said, sitting opposite him, her hands wrapped around a cup of coffee. 'I'm sure you'll want them back.' She smiled thinly. 'Before you head home that is.'

He drank the orange juice, avoiding her gaze. His chest felt tight at the thought of leaving. These had been the best few hours of his life, he thought.

'I'll call you a taxi whenever you're ready. Whenever you like.'

She was still sad. She was probably thinking of the friend who'd died, who he'd reminded her about.

'I - I like your art,' he said quietly. He wanted to see her smile properly again, think about nice things that she liked.

'Ah, you're awfully sweet,' she smiled. Seb glowed inside. She reached across the table and touched his face, palm and fingers brushing against his cheek.

'Look up at me,' she said. Seb raised his eyes, looking right into her dark lashed ones. 'That's some bad bruising,' she murmured, her irises vibrating as they scanned his face. 'But I'm sure you'll live.' She sat back, taking her coffee in both hands again. 'Your eyes,' she said, shaking her head. 'You have the most amazingly blue eyes.' Seb's stomach skydived. 'Bet the girls fall over for themselves for you.' She drained her coffee.

Seb smiled shyly and shook his head.

'What?' She gasped in mock horror. 'No? Well, they must be totally blind.' She swatted his arm playfully and stood up, making her way out to the utility room. She returned a moment later, his clothes folded in a neat bundle in her hands.

'Now.' She laid them on the table with an over bright smile. 'They're there for you whenever you're ready.'

Seb gulped the coffee and stood up, taking the pile.

'You can - there's a bathroom just on the left.' She motioned towards the stairs. Seb made his way up, changing slowly in her bathroom. It was full of her towels and make up, bottles of perfume and face creams, body lotions and all the tonics, paints and potions that went in to making a woman. It smelled like her. He breathed her in as he dressed, the scent fighting its way through his blocked nose.

'Ooh, look at you,' she cooed as he descended. 'A far cry from last night.'

She reached out and ran a hand over his hair, brushing it lightly.

'There's not many women can say a man left them in a better state than they found them,' she joked. Seb smiled, enjoying the feeling of her hand as she groomed his hair.

'I suppose you want to head home,' she said, stepping back and folding her arms. Seb shrugged. He didn't really of course, but he could hardly say he wanted to stay. She had work to do, a life to live after all. He was only getting in her way.

'I'll call you a taxi. You can head in and watch a bit of telly till it comes if you like.'

He told her his address and waited in the sitting room. Children's cartoons played on the television but he was more interested in taking in the room, the old dark wood furniture, the photographs and paintings, the ones on the wall arty, but a handful on a bookshelf more personal. One showed a family, a smiling dark haired man, his arm around a flame haired woman, two red haired girls seated at their feet. Another was Mrs Carswell in a gown, clutching a scroll, the one beside it her again, arm in arm with two other smiling women before a large, sparkly looking palace, and with the women again, and two men, all in fancy dresses and tuxedoes in a third.

'Taxi's here.' She fluttered in, wiping her hands on a towel. Seb stood and followed her to the front door.

'You'll keep safe now, won't you?' She said. 'No more getting into fights young Sebastien!'

Seb smiled. She reached up to his head again, this time not to fix his hair but to ruffle it.

'It's been nice having you. Hopefully I'll see you again, in better circumstances hey?' She leaned up and planted a kiss on his cheek. He was pretty sure his heart stopped, right then and there. 'Go on, hop in.' She ushered him towards the taxi. He sat in the back, climbing in as Mrs Carswell gave the driver money and instructions. She smiled lightly and waved as they drove off. Seb raised a hand, watching her disappear, getting smaller and smaller behind him. He sank back against the seat, heart and stomach somersaulting inside him.

'You look rough,' the driver said. Seb did not hear him, his mind filled with Mrs Carswell, her hair, her house, her art, her smile, voice, breasts, lips, hips, eyes, bottom, smell, laugh, legs.

He was so caught up in recreating her inch by perfect inch in his mind he didn't notice they'd arrived until the driver blasted the horn and barked at him to get out.

He stumbled from the car, pulling his hoodie over his head, too hot now in the layers of clothes he'd put on the night before, warmed by a cosy home and a kiss. He headed towards the pub. Inside, trade was quiet but steady. Darts played on the television and Paddy Whyte regaled the boys at the pool table with tales of his drunken youth. Seb nodded at Michael.

'Plate of chips?' He said. Michael nodded back. Seb sunk into a seat in the corner, where he could see the whole bar. In the booth opposite him a boy hardly older than Seb himself sat, balancing a small baby girl on his lap, attempting to feed her a pot of yoghurt. The baby gurgled and laughed, waving the spoon in her pudgy fists. 'Cat, cat!' She shrieked.

'No,' the boy said in frustration. 'Food. You eat it. In your mouth. Like this, look.' He took the spoon and made a show of eating a spoonful of yoghurt, sending the baby into a fit of giggles. The boy glanced up and caught Seb watching them.

'What you fooken lookin at?' He demanded. His accent was a thick northern drawl, as round and fat as his mother's harsh brogue had been sharp and thin. Seb shrugged.

'She is fooken mine an all,' the boy said defiantly, drawing up his shoulders as if daring Seb to suggest she wasn't. 'Ahm er fooken dad. You got a problem wi that?'

Seb couldn't care less if this boy was the father of the child, or ten others for that matter. He shook his head.

Michael approached, bringing Seb a large bowl of pasta covered in something green and gooey. 'No chips,' he said. 'Enjoy.' He laid the bowl down in front of Seb, casting a glance at the boy with the baby before returning to the bar. Seb pushed the pasta back and forth with his fork, watching the frilly bows slide around in their green sludge.

'What you got there?' The boy demanded. Before Seb could reply he landed beside him, waving the baby between them.

'Give er some,' he said. 'Maybe she'll eat that shite.'

Seb blinked. The baby's big blue eyes stared up at him. Hesitantly, he held out a bow of pasta towards her. She laughed, her mouth wide and half toothless. He pushed the pasta into her mouth and she took it, chewing with a concentrated look before dribbling half of it onto her bib with a giggle.

'Ah for fook's sake,' the boy said, wiping her face with the bottom of the bib. 'Messy cow.'

'What's - what's her name?' Seb asked.

'Emily. Ah didn't name er. Dint av a choice. Just as well really.' He laughed, a loud, raucous bray that attracted more than a few glances. 'Ah'd a called er Princess Leia, for lols like.' He laughed again.

Seb speared a piece of pasta and popped it in his own mouth. Emily sat quietly, gazing expectantly up at him.

'Ah think she likes it,' the boy said. 'Give er more. Ahm forever tryin t'get er to eat stuff, summat other than fooken cheddar cheese sarnies. Ahm fooken broke shellin out for that shite. Expensive tastes, dontcha missus?' He tickled the back of her neck. She hunched her shoulders, giggling. Seb fed her a couple more pieces, fascinated by this miniature human before him. He'd never really had much experience with babies. They seemed like an alien species to him.

'That stuff better not make er shit,' the boy said. 'Ah fooken ate avin to nappy change, fooken disgustin it is. Oo're you anyway?'

Seb blushed, unused to such direct questions. 'Seb,' he said. 'My name's Seb.'

'Seb? Sebastian like?'

Seb nodded. The boy chuckled. 'There's a posh git name if ever I erd one. You live about ere?'

'Yeah.'

'Oh thank god there's actually someone under fifty. Ahv only been ere a day an a night an ahm goin mad without any decent company. There much to do about?'

Seb shrugged.

'Ah, Seb!' Norman padded across the bar towards them. 'Olly. I see you've met. How's the little un getting on?'

'Fooken fussy a bint as ever,' the boy, Olly, replied.

Norman smiled. 'She's a pretty little lady. You're feeding her Seb?' He looked at the boy feeding another bow of pasta to the baby. 'You lot never cease to amaze me.' He shook his head, leaning on the booth. 'What've you been chatting about?'

Seb shrugged.

'Baby talk,' Olly said. 'What fook else d'you av to talk about when you've got em?'

Norman laughed. 'That's a true word. Work going alright Seb?'

Seb nodded.

'Good, good. I think maybe you should come in and try the kitchens tomorrow. Olly, you can go on the bar. Father's orders to keep you busy.'

Olly groaned. 'As if ahm not busy enough with er!' He cried.

Norman ignored him. He tapped the side of the booth and stood up. 'Right, I'll leave you to it then,' he said with a nod. Olly rolled his eyes as he lumbered off.

'You'd think getting kicked outta school would be like a big fooken oliday, wunt ya?' He said. 'Not full time babysittin an a fooken job on top of it.'

He reached out and pinched two bows from Seb's bowl, popping one in his own mouth and one in Emily's. 'D'you drink?' He said through his mouthful of goo. Seb shrugged, unsure what tack the boy was taking. Olly shrugged. 'Just don't seem like a whole lot else to do about. An ah could fooken do wi a few after ah get this one to sleep later. D'you live nearby?'

Seb swallowed the last of his pasta, pushing the bowl to one side. 'Upstairs,' he said.

'Oh, andy. Oo d'you live with?'

'No one.'

Olly's eyes widened. 'No way? Fooken proper. Jealous much? C'n ah coom over? Ah'll bring voddy. An not baby.'

Seb shrugged, unable to think of any reason to stop him.

'Fooken bang on. Don't know anyone round ere like, don't fancy another fooken night in Ettie Trench's smelly dump watchin fooken Jeremy Paxman, drinkin Orlick's. One night's enough at a time. Fooken swear to god it's Norman's an me dad's plan to fooken torture me.'

Hettie Trench was Norman's mother, an elderly woman who lived opposite the pub. Seb had spent the odd night there in his youth when Dolly had left him locked out, and he had to agree, it wasn't the sort of place for a teenage boy.

'Aaahh,' Olly said suddenly, waving his hand in front of his face. 'Fooken stinker.'

Seb sniffed, the stench hitting his nostrils.

'Did you make that fooken stink missy, did ya?' Olly demanded, picking the baby up under the arms and holding her up to sniff her nappy.

'Dada,' she gurgled. 'Dada poo.' She giggled loudly.

'Dada fooken knows it's a poo.' Olly grimacd. 'Coom on lassie, changin kit's at wizened old bint's ouse.' He gathered the baby into his arms, tucking her bottom onto one arm and patting her back with the other. 'Ah'll see you then later mate,' he said to Seb. Seb nodded. Emily burst into sudden, noisy tears.

'Aw Christ, coom on.'

Seb watched Olly leave the bar, trying his best to mollify the wailing baby. He frowned to himself. What a strange thing, he thought. Very strange indeed.

7

Olly was seventeen, Emily seventeen months. Olly was blond and brown eyed, Emily raven haired and blue. Olly was loud and chatty, his little girl quiet and giggly and sleeping like the dead in Dolly's old bed.

'She just totally told me no.' Olly poured himself and Seb a generous measure of expensive vodka. '"Ahm not lookin after no babies,"' he mimicked in a high pitched old lady voice. '"Ahv ad fifty bloody years o that, it's igh time ah got a bloody break, you were daft enough to get some poor lass preggers, you can andle the consequences. Don't fook in your bed if you can't sleep in it." She actually said that!' He added some vermouth to the vodka. 'Can you believe she said that? The filthy old sow.' He laughed his loud, braying laugh and passed Seb a glass. 'Ah you can't blame er really can ya? Ah don't wanna be babysittin when ahm fooken seventy odd. Still, she sleeps like a fooken log, ah tried to tell Mrs Trench that but she were avin none of it. D'you think this tastes alright?' He sniffed his drink and sipped it, pulling a face. Seb thought it tasted hideous, but the blast of alcohol from it was so powerful he reckoned he could overlook any taste.

'Ah brought some Kahlua as well, if this stinks we can make black Russians. Ah well, ah'll fooken drink it anyway. Won't let good alcohol go to waste, will ah? So, what do you do anyway? School?'

Seb shook his head.

'Yeah me either. Got kicked out, second time. Not my fault me dad insists on sendin me to pissy fooken private schools, wi an accent like this, that's fooken askin for trouble. E says ah bring it on mahself.' He took a drink and grinned. 'That's as may be but it's not the point is it?'

Olly was sure to get in trouble anywhere, Seb thought. Not just for his accent but his ability to talk and to pass judgement on everyone. On arrival at Seb's flat he had declared Michael a "lazy eyed, shrivel-balled cunt", had informed Seb of every dodgy deal that had been done in the pub that day and reeled off a list of reasons Norman and his own father weren't to be trusted from the things they had gotten up to together in their youth.

'So what d'you do then?'

Seb took a drink. 'Mechanic. Apprentice.'

'Ah that's alright ah suppose. Got your own motor?'

Seb shrugged. 'A bike. Fixing it up. Nearly done.'

Olly whistled. 'Nice. Always wanted a bike. Going to ask me dad to get me one for me eighteenth. After ole bein expelled thing blows over a course. What kinda bike's she?'

This was Seb's area. He could talk about bikes more comfortably than anything. He told Olly about the bike in detail, what he'd done, what was left to do. Rather than boring the older boy, Olly looked impressed.

'Fook me,' he said when Seb was finished. 'You do you know your stuff don't ya? Well, don't fook up your life like ah did.' He poured himself another measure of vodka, reaching for another bottle in the enormous bag he had brought. 'Me dad nearly disowned me when ah got landed wi baby. Adn't told im she existed ya see, was usin me allowance to keep er mother fooken quiet, not that it worked in the end. Ell ath no fury an all that shite.'

Seb asked the question he'd been dying to ask all night. 'Where is her mum?'

Olly snorted. 'Low Newton. Where she fooken belongs, fooken nutjob. She were in Foston All when Emily were born, when she came out she brought baby to me, pissed off at me cause ah were seein this other bird by then, younger - Emily's mam's twenty-one ya see - so it were er revenge to leave baby wi me, she knew me dad dint know you see - well when e got over it e refused to let er av the kid back, said e were gonna sue for custody cause Jools were on drugs an game an all, well dint she go fooken gaga an broke in, tried to kill our ousekeeper, cut er up with a meat cleaver in our livin room. She killed mah dog as well, ow fooken sick is that? Anyway she got into Em's room an police arrived, she were threatening to drop the kid out window an all if she weren't allowed er back, she actually broke the baby's arm, dislocated er shoulder too. Ah weren't there thank god or ah'd a gone mechanical on er arse - me dad as a few shotguns locked in is room an ah know where the keys are - but the police got er anyway an she confessed to everything, turned out she'd killed this fella she'd been seein before she came to our place as well, wi same fooken knife, she were on all sorts of drugs, off er ed, so they locked er oop anyway an Emily's mine an me dad's. Jools only as a mum an she's in a psych ospital so ah know where she gets it from anyway. Just ope kid's got more a my genes than ers.' He stopped to drink. Seb listened, his face blank though he was more than a little shocked. Fascinated too. He was sure he'd heard that story before, now that Olly related it, but then it had just been a news story on the radio, not a living, breathing person sitting in front of him.

'So yeah, that's where Emily's mam is, sentenced two weeks ago, not getting out till Emily's an adult at least an she's not getting to fooken see er either, ahm not lettin er anywhere near the fooken basket case. D'you know,' he leaned towards Seb. Seb found himself leaning forwards too. 'Ah never wanted a kid. Ah said she should get rid of it, then ah tried to pay er to get er to fook off. But now,' he slapped the arm of the chair. 'Now ah'd fooken do anythin for that kid. Anythin.' He sat back, draining his drink. When he was finished he leaned his elbows on his thighs, clutching the glass between his knees. 'It's ard, but ah try mah best. Me dad said to me, e said, "Don't think this is all going to be sunshine an dandelions Olly. Any boy can be a father, it takes a real man to be a dad."' He poured another drink. 'Ah reckon it were is way o challengin me. Fooken worked anyway.' He took a long, gulping drink. Seb watched him in fascination, awed by this boy who had only a year on him, but seemed so much older and wiser.

Olly shrugged and grinned suddenly, the smile flashing like a beacon. 'So, that's mah wild an excitin life story. Woss yours? Ow you coom to live in this epic palace all by yourself?' He chuckled.

Seb knew he was taking the piss but he smiled too, a small one. 'My mum died,' he said.

'Aw, no shit. Mine too. Years ago now, ah were five. Well, she didn't die, ah dunno, she left. Reckon she found out what me dad's really up ta an she got fook out while she still ad legs. Or not, ah dunno, she left me behind anyway, so oo knows.' He shrugged. 'What appened yours?'

'Murdered.'

Seb expected the usual gawping shock that came in the wake of that revelation but Olly just shook his head and said, 'Fooken ell. You poor bloody bugger.'
Seb supposed a mutilated housekeeper, dead dog and a murderous ex-girlfriend were enough to desensitize anyone to gruesomeness.

He shrugged. 'I didn't really know her.'

'Still,' Olly said, 'that's worse'n shit. No one wants that. Ahm sorry for ya mate.' He leaned forward and slapped Seb on the shoulder, giving it a squeeze. 'Look at us eh, walkin fooken soap opera we are,' he joked.

They drank, polishing off the vodka. Olly played rock songs on the radio, singing along in silly voices that made Seb laugh. He woke Emily, who cried and cried, quelling only when Olly gave up rocking and singing to her to play "Round and Round the Garden" and "This Little Piggy." She sat, hiccupping and blinking in the middle of the floor of Dolly's room, staring as her father pinching her tiny toes.

'Cat,' she burped.

'No, foot,' Olly said. Seb watched them from the doorway.

'Dada.' She held her arms out, clenching and unclenching her fists in slow motion. 'Dada hug.' Olly gathered her into his arms. 'Tuck,' she said, pointing vaguely at the chest of drawers. She pointed at Seb. 'Cat.'

'That's Seb,' Olly said, bouncing her gently in his arms. 'Can ya say Seb?'

She repeated his name carefully. Olly grinned. 'Bang on. What a girl eh, genius she is. Show im your walkin, go on.'

Olly giggled drunkenly, lowering the toddler to the ground. She took two uneven steps towards Seb, wobbled and staggered three more, falling with a thump onto her bottom. She blinked. Seb thought she was about to cry, but when Olly erupted into peals of throaty laughter she grinned widely and clapped her hands.

'Ere, ere coom back t'me, good girl, coom to dada.' Olly crouched by the bed, beckoning. Using Seb's jeans for support she pulled herself to her feet and stumbled towards him.

'Ent she amazin?' He slurred. He scooped her into his arms and spun, staggering unevenly on his own feet. 'Go again, go again.' He put her back on the ground. She staggered and giggled, twirling in a circle and landing on her rear again. Shrieking loudly and drunkenly the boys urged Emily back and forth between them, drinking the Kahlua from the bottle, nothing more hilarious than every time she fell and blinked, wide eyed, until Olly leapt suddenly to his feet, declaring, 'Ahm gonna be sick.'

He ran for the bathroom. Through the wall Seb could hear the vomit splashing against the old porcelain toilet bowl. Emily crawled towards him, clambering into his lap in the absence of Olly's. She laid her head on his stomach and stuck her fingers in her mouth, closing her eyes. Her body was warm and soft against his belly, her breathing slow and rhythmic. Seb patted her like a dog, unsure what to do. Olly returned, bleary eyed and stinking. He looked at Seb, Emily curled up peacefully in his lap, and smiled.

'Think she likes you mate,' he said with a yawn. 'Urgh, ahm rough as.'

He pulled off his jumper and staggered to the bed, collapsing with a bounce. Seb sat, the sound of Olly's snores punctuating the dull thump of music from the flat below. Emily's warmth and comfort were soothing, sliding slowly back and forth with his vision. They were kind of alike, he thought dreamily, him and Emily, with their shit mothers and rough childhoods. At least she had Olly though, and his dad seemed to care. That mattered. Seb knew that mattered.

He yawned suddenly, a cavernous yawn that made his head spin. He gathered the baby awkwardly in his arms and hauled himself to his feet. With the greatest care he could, he laid her down beside her dad. He drew Olly's jumper over her in case she was cold, tucking it down to leave her face clear. He lay down beside her and closed his eyes, the world swaying gently like a ship, his mind filled with images of mangled housekeepers half-hacked to death, screaming babies and Jessica Carswell, and then, blissfully, nothing.

*

'It weren't fooken me! Ahv nowt to do with it, ahv told ya!'

'Who was it then, the ghost of grim lane? That batch had nothing to do with me, and nothing around here has nothing to do with me. It comes on the street the same time you arrive in town, after what your father's sent you down here for - and then he has to send you to me for fucking protection - something's up and it's just a bit of a coincidence don't you agree? I took you on in good faith Olly, and because your dad's an old friend, but you have to stick to the rules, and you know them. I won't be at all fucking happy if I have to start cleaning up after you. I won't put up with it. Understand?'

'It weren't me.'

'It better not have been. If I hear anything, a single peep about you, the tiniest whisper, it's straight back to your dad, you get me?' Pause. 'What? What did you say? A bit louder.'

'Yes. OK, fine, whatever.'

Seb was in the kitchen today, as Norman had suggested, helping Boris, the chef, chopping carrots and broccoli and peeling potatoes. He was just back from the tattoo parlour and his arm ached and stung. Emptying the potato skins into the food dispenser by the back door he had heard Olly and Norman arguing and stopped to listen.

The door flew open suddenly. Seb jumped. Norman stormed in, stony faced, and strode through the kitchen towards the bar. Behind him a harassed looking Olly ran his hands over his face. He caught Seb's eye and nodded. He looked wrecked, his eyes dark and red, his skin pale.

'Alright?' He said.

'Alright,' Seb nodded.

'Ahm fooken shattered,' Olly sighed. 'After ah left yours this mornin ah were urling like me stomach wanted to move into fooken bog or summat, then Emily starts screamin. Been at it all afternoon, just on me way to chemist to get some Calpol, ahm at me wit's end. Mrs Trench says it's stomach, thinks we did summat to er last night, gave er summat, ahm just, argh, just goin mental.' He looked like he was about to cry. Seb wondered if he had been.

'Ahv got no life anymore, full time fooken dad an ah can't afford a babysitter cause dad's cut me allowance, part o mah punishment. Ah were actually lookin forward to workin in the bar today just to do summat that isn't fooken stackin blocks or readin Robin Ood an drawin pictures an talkin shite an cleanin up shite an watchin Barney the bloody purple paedophile.' He stopped and breathed deeply. 'An ow are you gettin on anyway Seb lad?' He sighed.

Seb shrugged. 'Fine.'

The kitchen door opened, Norman's voice booming through. Seb glanced around to see Norman's vast back stepping into the kitchen. When he turned back, Olly was gone.

'Seb!' Norman approached him, slapping the boy on the shoulder with a beefy hand. 'How are you getting on?'

Seb shrugged again and repeated that he was fine.

'Good good.' Norman squeezed his shoulder. 'Mum told me Olly and Emily stayed at yours last night?'

Seb nodded. Norman nodded slowly, taking his hand from his shoulder. 'Listen, Seb,' he said, lowering his voice. 'I'd keep my distance from that boy if I were you. Wouldn't get too pally like. He's trouble in all it's incarnations and no bloody mistake. He's a rough kid with loads of money, and his dad's not exactly innocent either, you know what I mean? He's been in quite a lot of trouble up home, his dad's sent him down here to lay low for a while. I've agreed to keep an eye on him, help him out, his dad's a friend of mine from way back, it's a favour but I don't trust him as far as I can fucking throw him and if he wasn't Frankie Bowman's kid I wouldn't have taken him in.' He paused. 'Or if he didn't have that baby either, Christ. I couldn't leave a kid to the mercy of that boy and the scum he keeps for company. Kids with kids, it's just not right.' He shook his head and sighed. 'Anyway, if you want to have a worthwhile life Seb kiddo, you'd do well to stay away from him, there's a good lad.' He slapped Seb on the shoulder again and wandered off to bring out a plate of egg and chips.

Seb glared at the potatoes he chopped and chicken he stuffed. Who was Norman to tell him what to do? He thought. And to call people's company scum when he filled he his pub with it, did business with it, dealt and sold for it himself? Olly might be young but he seemed like a good dad, he really cared anyway, and that counted for a lot, Seb would know.

Annoyed and defiant, when the kitchen closed Seb snatched his vodka and what was left of the vermouth and marched to Hettie Trench's house. A drawn, pale looking Olly answered the door, but his face lit up at the sight of Seb and the two bottles.

'Coom in,' he whispered. 'Be quiet though, she's not long asleep. Neither of em.' He motioned towards the sitting room, sniggering. Seb glanced in. In the middle of the room stood a colourful playpen, Emily fast asleep inside it. Beside her old Mrs Trench snored, her mouth hanging open as she snoozed in an armchair.

'Coom on, let's go upstairs.'

Seb followed Olly upstairs, creeping so as not to make too much noise. The spare room Olly was staying in smelled old and musty, the space between the foot of the bed and the wall piled high with cardboard boxes and an old mirror. A flowery travel cot blocked the wardrobe, an open suitcase buried under piles of clothing acting as one instead.

'It's not perfect but it's ome.' Olly flung himself onto the bed, throwing his arms wide. 'An ah picked mahself up a telly on way back from the pharmacy, some lads were fencin em from their car.' He motioned to the TV perched on top of the boxes at the end of the bed. Seb had assumed it was a piece of junk left in with the other old stuff. 'It's an old one,' Olly added. 'But it's better than avin to sit through fooken Gardener's World with er downstairs. She don't even av a garden.' He snorted. 'Coom on, sit down, get bevvies out.'

Seb joined him on the bed, drawing the bottles out of the bag. Olly flicked on the television, cracking open the bottle of Kahlua. Seb opened the vodka. They drank and watched American sitcoms, trying not to laugh too loudly at the funny bits. Seb rarely watched TV. He knew this was just another addition to the list of things that made him weird and different, but he'd always found it boring on his own, preferring the outdoors and his own company. But with Olly it was much more enjoyable, the other boy calling things at the characters, making up his own lines, mocking the situations, the fashions, the accents.

'British comedy's much funnier,' he said matter-of-factly. 'More subtle.'

Seb thought the shows they were watching were pretty funny, if a little unbelievable, but he nodded and agreed and Olly changed the channel, to another comedy show, a British one this time, with lots of comedians talking about current affairs, footballers and the news. Seb didn't think it was as funny as the others they'd been watching, but then perhaps that was because he knew so little about politicians and celebrities. Probably, if he did, he would find it as funny as Olly, who was practically falling off the bed in smothered hysterics. He laughed along regardless.

Darkness fell gradually around them, the sounds of the television seeming louder as the street became quiet. The programme finished and Olly flicked through the handful of channels.

'Aw, that's all full o shite,' he declared, flicking the TV off. He rolled onto his stomach to face Seb. 'Let's go out an do summat. Before old Trench downstairs wakes up, that way she can babysit.' He grinned devilishly. Seb shrugged.

'Coom on.' He leapt over him, off the bed, and scrambled about on the floor. He resurfaced, clutching a pair of trainers. Seb slithered off the bed. They slipped down the stairs, Olly holding his finger to his lips, as if they needed to remember to keep quiet. He stopped to glance into the sitting room. Hettie Trench was still fast asleep, her chin resting on her chest now. Emily was awake, playing quietly with wooden animals, humming to herself, oblivious.

'Oh, she's alright now,' Olly whispered with joke sarcasm. 'She were fooken evil earlier. Tell ya, that Calpol's magical stuff. Ent she great girl?' He smiled gooily. 'Mind you, coom on, let's ed.'

They crept out the front door, Olly terrified the sound of the door closing would upset Emily. They waited for a moment; there was no sound. Olly ran, whooping and laughing as he skipped down the street, the epitome of glee.

They hit an off licence, where Olly emptied his pockets of what seemed to Seb like an astronomical amount of money for the most expensive whisky in the shop.

'So coom on, where's place to go for this? Where all the ip cats ang?' He grinned. Seb thought. The hill park was his. He was never taking anyone there. Well maybe not never...but not now.

'There's a park up that way,' he said, motioning down the street.

'Wick-ed, let's go.' Olly set off in the direction Seb pointed, whisky swinging by his side. Seb followed, clambering over the fence into the darkness.

'Ooh, it's scary in ere it is,' Olly said in a spooky voice.

'It's busy,' Seb replied.

It was. As they made their way through the park it became clear they weren't alone. Bushes rumbled with voices, the homeless wrapped in newspaper and cardboard beneath them. In the playground a gang of teenagers sat on the swings and climbing frame, fuzzy sounding rap playing on their phones as they kicked about, idly vandalising as they contemplated what to do for the night.

'Best stay away,' Seb muttered, lowering his head. Olly cast a curious glance at them and pulled a face.

'Yeah, not my type anyway,' he said.

The youths cat called and wolf whistled as they passed.

'We must make a cute couple,' Olly joked.

Seb smiled thinly. They followed the path around, past an old man urinating against a tree, a couple groping against the wall of boarded up public toilets which Seb reckoned to be populated by junkies cooking heroin round about now. Finally, a spot where there seemed to be no one, near the other end of the park. Olly launched himself at a bench, unscrewing the cap of the whisky. Seb seated himself at the end, pulling his hood up against the cold. The bench was damp, seeping through his tracksuit and top. The whisky was warm though, tearing it's firey way through his oesophagus into his belly.

'S good, ent it?' Olly said as he passed it back.

Seb nodded. They drank in silence, Olly for once wordless, drinking and leaning back, gazing dreamily at the sky. Seb looked up. Usually the sky was blank, clouds and streetlights blocking any views, but in one corner a patch of stars shone through.

'Anywhere round ere to get good speed?' Olly asked after a while. Seb took the whisky, shrugging. 'Es are good too,' he added. 'Not now like, gotta wait for my next chunk of allowance to come through, another day or two yet. Gotta get them feelers out there though, dontcha? Ey, what's over there?' He pointed between a line of trees, through a hole in the fence to the street on the other side. Seb passed him back the whisky, only a third full now.

'Shore Street,' he answered.

'Any chance of a good score there?'

Seb laughed. 'You might score. Won't be what you're looking for though.'

'Oh yeah?'

Seb took a deep swig. 'Rent boys.'

'Rent boys?' Olly hooted with laughter. 'Yeah, alright, not my thing, no. Coom on.' He climbed to his feet. 'Let's go look for tits, ahm not so into ole boy on boy action.' Olly skipped off, chugging on the whisky. Seb stumbled after him, the ground under his feet unstable. They passed a dried up stream, Olly doing a tap dance to a bawdy, old-fashioned rhyme upon a small plank of wood that bridged it. Seb watched, chuckling self-consciously. When the song was done Olly leapt off the plank into the ditch. 'Coom on.' He beckoned to Seb. Seb jumped off the bank and they headed down the non-existent stream. Olly chatted away, about what Seb did not know; he wasn't really listening. Instead, another sound had caught his ears. 'What's that noise?' He said, interrupting Olly's stream of consciousness. Olly stopped. 'What noise? Ah don't ear owt mahself.' Seb stopped, listening. Olly copied. Through the trees that lined the banks of the dried up stream there came a faint sound, barely audible above the hum of traffic in the distance. 'Let's go see.' Before Seb could protest, Olly scrambled up the bank, an avalanche of dead leaves falling in his wake. Seb hesitated. At the top of the bank Olly stopped and crouched, gesturing to him. He sighed and climbed to join the older boy. As he hunkered down his knee hit a rock. He cried out. 'Shh,' Olly whispered. Seb shushed. 'Look.' Seb followed his finger. Through the trees he could just about make out a group of figures. For a moment he thought they were dancing; their arms were outstretched and they seemed to spin, but as they swung under a streetlight he realised what they were looking at. 'Fooken bastards,' Olly hissed. Before Seb could stop him the older boy smashed his bottle against the rock and leapt out between the trees. What on earth was he doing? Seb wondered. He was going to get them killed. Screams rang from the group as Olly burst from the undergrowth. Resigned, Seb steeled himself and ran out after him. Before them, two girls in short dresses grappled with two boys, hardly older than themselves. One, pinned to a tree, a knife glinting at her throat, screamed. Her friend brandished a dangerous looking stiletto heel, struggling in the grasp of the second boy who held tight to her bag and her wrist, the heel several inches from his face. 'Get fook off er.' Olly thrust the broken bottle before him, brandishing it at the boy with the knife. He spun around, letting go of the girl as he turned to face Olly, his knife outstretched. The second boy glanced up, taking his eyes off the shoe. Seb saw his chance. He leapt. The boy cried out as Seb's arms grasped him from behind, his weight causing the boy to stagger backwards. The girl freed herself, yanking her bag from the boy's hand. She ran for her friend. Seb landed on his feet, pulling the boy round to face him. He landed a punch, hard and fast, in the middle of the boy's face. Bones cracked under his knuckles. He punched again. The boy's hand reached for his pocket. Seb flung him backwards, landing on the boy's wrist as he hit the ground. The boy cried out, his hand twisting under Seb's foot. Seb snatched the knife that clattered from his fingers, pressing the button that flicked out the blade. He pointed it at the boy, who lay cradling his arm with his other hand. 'Fuck off!' He yelled, giving him a kick for good measure. 'Go on, fuck off!' The boy rolled over onto his knees, weeping. Seb gave him one more kick as he scrambled to his feet and watched the boy scurry off into the darkness. Still clutching the knife, he turned back to the others. The first boy was gone. Olly's broken bottle lay by the tree, abandoned. Seb was relieved to see it was clean. Olly, a streak of dirt across his face, spoke rapidly to the girls, urging them to come with him and calm down. The girl with the bag comforted her friend, her arms around the other girl's shoulders. She shouted something Seb couldn't understand – he reckoned it was another language – and pulled her friend to her feet. They set off down the pathway, running as fast as they could in painfully flat shoes. Olly shrugged. 'Jeez,' he said, turning back to Seb. 'Talk about ungrateful. Y'think they'd've at least offered a blow job.' He grinned. Seb closed the knife, hiding it in his hand. Olly shook his head.

'Fooken scum,' he said, 'goin after girls.' He sighed. 'Fook it, let's go ome. This is no place for angin out Seb lad, you're messed up in ed.' Olly wiped his face with the sleeve of his jumper and set off down the pathway after the girls. Seb followed, pulling his sleeve over his hand as he went. Olly was nuts, he thought. 'Those boys,' he said, drawing alongside the older boy. 'They – they could have had guns. Or knives.'

Olly grinned. 'But they didn't.'

'We didn't know that.' Olly shrugged, his gait uneven as he swaggered. 'Well, we were lucky then, weren't we?' He said with an air of nonchalance. Seb shook his head. Surreptitiously, he rubbed at the handle of the knife with his sleeve. 'We could have been killed,' he said. Olly threw out an arm, wrapping it about the younger boy's shoulder. 'Ah, but we weren't, we were!' He pulled him down, planting a kiss on the top of Seb's head and let him go again, sauntering unsteadily out of the park. Seb paused at the gate, by a bin for dog waste. He slipped the knife in, hearing it clatter against the side as it fell. His heart pounded, adrenaline pumping through his body. He felt clear headed and alert, completely sober now. But he wouldn't have done what Olly had done, drunk or sober he thought. He had to admit to a slight, sneaking admiration for the boy's brazenness. He set off after him, shaking his head. Olly was nuts, Seb thought. Absolutely, completely nuts. And Seb liked it.

8

Norman poured himself a steaming cup of coffee and sighed. It was morning but it was still dark outside, the odd confused bird here and there tweeting in the apple trees outside the kitchen window. He stood by it, gazing into the pre-dawn as he sipped the boiling black drink, not cooled or sweetened by milk.

The dodgy batch of heroin doing the rounds was causing him headache, and now there were reports of even lower grade cocaine and amphetamines. There were always problems with ecstasy, not the generally purer grade powder MDMA but the pills, but he could care less about any of that. The coke Seb had brought him infuriated him, because he had no idea whose it was, and because it meant Dolly had been doing deals behind his back. The heroin was causing him strife, on the other hand, because he knew precisely who it was; he had eyes and ears all over his territory, and nothing he had a finger in escaped his notice. He had enforcers all over too, and usually he would dispatch them quietly, carefully, and with minimum fuss, and be headache free again. His problem was, this time it was Olly. Oliver Bowman, his oldest friend's child, his own godson, offspring of one of the most dangerous men Norman knew. And with a kid himself! Norman had sworn his protection and care for the boy, and any betrayal of that was a betrayal of Frank, and whatever else Norman was, he was loyal. But he needed to figure some way to put the shits up the kid, without being implicated. He was too cocky by far.

'Norman?' Melanie appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a fluffy dressing gown, hair scraped back off her face with a hair band. 'It's five a.m., what are you doing?'

He motioned with his cup. 'Headache. Came down for a coffee.'

'Well coffee's not going to help,' she said reproachfully. She shuffled into the kitchen, bunny rabbit slippers bobbing their heads along the floor. 'What is it?' She asked. Reaching for the decanter, she poured herself a mug and shuffled over to the fridge. Norman barely told her anything that was bothering him, she'd gotten used to that by now. When she was younger it had hurt, had infuriated her. She had wanted to be part of every part of Norman's life, his wife, to be there and care for him. Now, she would rather not know, and though she always asked, it was only to remind him that she cared, or that she was even there. So when he sat down at the table and said, 'It's Olly,' she was nothing short of stunned.

'Olly? Frankie's kid?'

'The one and only.'

'Why, what's he up to?' She poured a long measure of low fat milk into her drink, careful not to show the surprise and delight that Norman had actually, for once, answered that question with a genuine reply.

'I think he's pushing dirty drugs.'

Mel sighed. Twenty years ago, she thought, she would have gasped. But very little around here to do with Norman surprised her anymore.

'Who told you that?' She said, taking a sip.

'I have my sources. But...well, that's why he's down here. He was in shit up north with all sorts of gangs and the filth, dealing dodgy gear and blow, and now he's here it shows up all over the place. Hardly a coincidence, is it?'

'You told me he was here cause he'd been kicked out of school.'

'He was. He was selling speed there.'

'Norman, you told me he was kicked out for cheating. Now you tell me he's in trouble with the police? And gangs?'

Norman sighed. 'Frank sent him down here because he was in all sorts of trouble at home. Frank was afraid for his life and for the baby, so he had to send him somewhere he reckoned he'd be safe, so I said I'd take him on, it's all I owe Frank after all, and the kid is my godson.' He sighed. 'But as soon as he's down rough gear starts to be sold. I brought him up here to be closer to me, I've warned him, but it's a delicate line I'm walking...I'm breaking my back keeping him low, keeping the filth off, keeping him fucking alive. But, oh, you know, he's a teenage boy Mel, what do you do? He's wild, he's had so much free reign with Frank being his dad, he's always just done whatever he's wanted and left everyone else to clean up the mess. He's an arrogant little shit. If he wasn't Frankie's I'd never take him on. I don't trust him, none of the guys do. And him and Seb seem to have hit it off, which is the weirdest.'

'Seb?' Now that surprised Mel. Seb hitting it off with anyone was positively unimaginable.

'They've spent the last couple of days hanging out together. I don't want Seb getting involved with him, Olly's nothing but trouble of the highest fucking order. I'm as surprised as you love.' He shook his head. 'I always thought it would be great for Seb to have someone his own age, to have a friend, but Olly fucking Bowman is the last person I'd have nominated for that. Oh Mel, I can't even begin to list the trouble he's in; dealing drugs in school, dealing in other gang's territory, dealing dodgy drugs, drugs linked to deaths, involved with the wrong girls, the wrong people's girls, the cops...and now he's bringing it all down here, and it's up to me to protect the kid.'

'And Seb too,' Mel said.

'And Seb,' Norman sighed.

Mel drained her coffee and stood up, walking to the sink. 'Olly always seems like such a nice boy,' she said doubtfully.

Norman thought of Seb and the barbaric violence he had seen the quiet, unassuming boy commit. 'There's a good kid in there,' he said. 'He's just had the best of everything in the worst of worlds. He thinks he's invincible, untouchable. He gets up people's noses and he gets in the sort of trouble that Frank, Frankie, can't totally deal with.' He shook his head.

Mel pursed her lips. Even she knew Frank Bowman was big time. His contacts were high up, low down and everything in between. He'd got Norman out of the nick once, many years ago, and another acquaintance who'd been convicted of the rape and murder of the daughter of a government minister. The thought that he had no sort of control over his own son disturbed her no small amount.

'So.' Norman rose from his seat. 'I've just been thinking how I'm going to impose my authority on the boy.' He smiled at her. 'I'll find a way. I always do. Now.' He stretched. 'I've gotta get dressed and meet Paul Crossan.' He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. 'I'll sort it out, don't worry.'

She grabbed his hand. 'Look after them Norman,' she whispered.

He squeezed her hand and sighed. 'I fear it's too late for Olly,' he said. Seventeen years too late, he thought privately.

'But Seb?'

Norman smiled, touched by his wife's fierceness about the boy. 'He's got through sixteen years of a tough life. I'm not letting him get sucked in now.'

Mel nodded stiffly. 'Good. And good luck.'

Norman smiled. He'd need it.

*

Jessica Carswell's legs were a thing of beauty. Long and shapely, they stretched out from under her skirt, toned and golden, the sort you dreamt about being wrapped around you, every part. In Peter Clarke's office they extended and crossed, smooth and shiny in the harsh strip light of the office.

He tore his eyes from them, back to her face, sitting back in his chair with a sigh.

'He's not here.'

Mrs Carswell's smile faltered. 'Not here?'

Clarke shook his head. 'He hasn't shown up today. He's supposed to be back today. He's not answering his phone, but there's nothing new there. No idea where he is. I'm assuming home, but I have no way of knowing.'

'You haven't gone to check?'

Clarke sighed. 'Jess, love, I have a business to run. If I went running around after my employees all the time I'd be out of pocket in weeks.'

'But he's not just an employee Pete, he's a child! A vulnerable one.'

Clarke shook his head. 'He should have taken the week off after his mother died,' he muttered. 'I told him to but...' He sighed.

'His mother died recently?'

'A couple of weeks ago. She was -' Clarke paused. 'Look, it's the boy's private business. Why are you so interested anyway?'

Jessica Carswell looked indignant. 'I'm concerned for him. He's orphaned, he's vulnerable. I looked after him the other night and I saw...' She paused, her face twisted in frustration. 'He's like a dog that's been kicked around all its life.' She sighed.

'That's because he has been.' Clarke folded his arms. 'He's had a rough time of it. I took him on a couple of years ago, a favour for an old mate who knew his mum, keeps his eye out for him, came to me, asked me if I'd have any room to take him on, a job, bit of money, keep him out of trouble so to speak. He's a talented kid, excellent with bikes especially. He's a fucking Rubik's cube to figure out though, strange kid, not like a normal teenage boy at all.'

Silence settled between them, heavy with thoughts and contemplation. Mrs Carswell rose to her feet. Clarke looked up, startled.

'You're off already?'

'I'm going to see if he's alright.'

Clarke frowned. 'What - you - I can't tell you where he lives,' he said cautiously.

She pulled her bag onto her shoulder. 'It's alright, I know he lives above the Grey Lady Inn. I'll just ask in there. I'm sure people will know of a young boy living alone whose mother has just died.'

Clarke pulled a face. 'Look, ah - ask for Norman. In the pub. Old mate of mine, as I said, he keeps a bit of an eye out for him, might know where the kid's got to. Might be able to help you.'

Jessica smiled. 'Thanks Pete. I'll do that.' She turned to go.

'Jess,' he called after her. She stopped, turned back. He rose, crossing the room to take her hand. 'You'll - let me know how he is right?' He squeezed her hand. She smiled.

'Of course. I'll text you later.' She rose on tiptoes and planted a kiss on his cheek, squeezing his hand back. She left quickly, pulling her coat closed with one hand. The day was overcast and gloomy, dry at the moment, but with the threat of rain. She hailed a taxi, sliding into the back as she gave the address, ignoring the driver's eyes on her in the rear-view mirror.

The streets were unfamiliar, grim and foreboding in their deterioration. She distracted herself with her phone, playing with it idly as she thought of Seb. She hoped he was alright. Probably he was still weak from the other night, hadn't shown up for work because he'd been beaten up two days before. Still, she was terrified something more could have gone wrong, and it would all be on her head, because she hadn't brought him to the hospital. She knew she should have, it was the first thing she should have done, had the boy sustained some sort of internal injury or anything...she shuddered and brushed it quickly from her mind. He'd been in her home for twelve hours, surely she would have known if he had.

The Grey Lady loomed, shabby and inconspicuous between an estate agent and a Chinese takeaway. She slipped out of the taxi, handing the driver a crisp new note. The men smoking outside the pub eyed her as she sauntered past. She smiled and nodded, a little unnerved by their bloodshot eyes following her through the door.

Inside, the pub was quiet. A group of young men played a wordless game of snooker, half an eye on the large flat screen TV showing a sports news channel. At the bar a handful of older men sat, mumbling amongst themselves. Behind it a young man stood cleaning glasses, a glazed, far off look in his eye. She made for him, heels clacking across the wooden floor. Every head in the bar turned, searching for the source of the sound.

'Hi,' she greeted the barman breathlessly. 'I'm ah - I'm looking for - Norman?'

The boy looked her up and down, looking confused, as if she were something he had just found in his pocket and had no idea where it had come from.

'Norman's not here at the moment,' he said slowly. 'Not sure when he'll be back...who are you?'

'My name's Jessica. I'm - well, I'm actually looking for Seb Daly?'

'Ah,' the boy nodded, though he looked even more confused. 'Seb eh? Well he's not here either I'm afraid, he only works evenings.'

'Well - I was rather hoping you'd be able to tell me where he lives.'

The boy eyed her suspiciously. 'You from the social?' He said.

'Oh gosh no.' She shook her head, conscious of all the eyes in the bar on her. 'No I'm just - a friend.'

The boy put down the glass he was holding. 'Seb doesn't have any friends,' he said slowly.

'Definitely none like you love,' a white haired man two seats down belched.

'I met him a few days ago,' she said, getting a little frustrated now. 'He wasn't well, I wanted to make sure he was OK and I was told to come here and ask for Norman, I was told he'd take me to him.'

The boy glanced around, clearly debating whether to be suspicious of her or not. He sighed. 'He lives upstairs, first door on the right when you head out of here. Flat three.'

She smiled. 'Thank you.' As she turned, somebody behind her snorted. 'Good luck.' The men guffawed. She strode out, back past the boys ogling from the snooker table, the smokers huddled together against the rain. The door beside the pub was blank and unobtrusive. It didn't look as if anyone should live there, the paint faded and peeling, the intercom broken and numberless. She hammered on the door, huddling into the corner against the rain. She screwed up her nose, the acrid stench of stale urine wafting from the doorstep. She hammered again, hoping someone would answer.

'You alright love?' An unshaven man with greasy hair detached himself from the crowd of smokers, advancing towards her.

'I um - yes I'm - well, I'm just - I need to see someone up there,' she flustered.

The man raised an eyebrow. 'Anyone in particular?'

She sighed, frustrated by all the suspicion. 'Seb Daly,' she said. 'I -'

'In trouble is he?' The man grunted. 'Been thieving again?'

'Oh no.' She shook her head. 'No, not that, nothing like that.'

'You're here about his mum then?'

The rain lashed harder, whipping at her legs and chest. The smokers were heading back inside, retreating from the elements.

'Yes, yes I'm here about his mother,' she said impatiently. A flash of inspiration struck. 'I'm a psychiatrist. He's supposed to be getting therapy. After his mother's death.'

The man snorted. 'Well lord knows, if anyone needs therapy it's that kid.' He drew a bunch of keys from his pocket. Jessica let a sigh of relief. He opened the door, pushing it open to let her in.

'Go on,' he grunted. 'Good luck trying to get through to that lad.'

She stepped inside, relieved to be away from the driving weather. Her relief soon vanished as the stench of urine magnified. The hallway was narrow and dark, one grimy window at a landing letting in the sole patch of light. She picked her way forwards, over a jumble of broken old bikes and scattered envelopes, letters and bills lying on the floor like corpses after a battle. She made her way up the stairs, eyes peeled for flat three. An old blue door embossed with a discoloured number one sat on the first landing. She passed it, up another flight of stairs. Three more doors sat along the next hall, the nearest one numberless, covered in graffiti that stretched across the wall. The other two were shrouded in darkness, there being no light or window on the floor. The hallway stank of vomit and sweat, mingled with urine and rotten food. She blanched, sickened by the rancid odour. How anyone could live here was beyond comprehension. She pushed on, squinting at the two remaining doors. The second one must be number three, she reasoned. She stepped up to it, fixing her bag on her shoulder. Further down the corridor something caught her eye. She squinted, catching her breath at the sight of the glittering police tape across the neighbouring door. She looked away quickly, rapping urgently at the door.

'Hello,' she called. 'Seb? Seb it's me, Jessica.'

Something groaned. She started and glanced about. 'H - hello?'

In the darkness something stirred. She took a step backwards. It grunted again, groaned. A head turned suddenly, the face a flash of white against the darkness. She gasped.

'Oh my god.'

She rushed over, groping about for the body in the dark.

'Seb? Seb!'

He blinked, his eyes blurry and unfocused. He coughed.

'Oh god.' She turned her face away, the blast of morning breath and alcohol making her stomach flip. A sense of relief washed over her. He was alive at least. Drunk, and smelling like a dump, but alive.

'Come on, up.' She helped him into a sitting position. Even propped against the wall he was unsteady, swaying as she tried to get him to stay up by himself. His face was ashen and drawn, one side of it brown with vomit, lumps of food like freeze dried soup crusted to his face where he'd obviously fallen asleep in his own sick.

'Seb,' she said gently. 'Have you got a key? To get into your flat?'

He didn't answer, sliding sideways down the wall with a gurgle. She grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back up, sticking her hand into his jacket pocket. Nothing. She tried the other. Nothing. She reached for his tracksuit bottoms, drawing out a handful of change, a packet of gum and two condoms. She tucked them back, reaching for the other one. Third time lucky. She laughed out loud as she climbed to her feet.

'D'you know, for a horrible moment I thought you'd locked yourself out.' She popped the key in the lock, jiggling until it opened and turned back to Seb.

'De ja vu,' she muttered, lifting an arm around her shoulders. She dragged him to his feet, staggering unsteadily in her heels. He was heavier than he looked. She stumbled to the door, clutching him round the waist with her other arm. Inside, the flat was dark and cold. Clearly it hadn't been cleaned in a number of weeks, the corners and surfaces thick with dust and grime. The sitting room was littered with empty wine bottles and beer cans. Against a boarded up fireplace stood a coffee table, laden with flowers, synthetic and real, rotting ones, surrounding a coterie of photographs. From the pictures smiled a woman, her face hard and leathery, her skin a deathly shade of pale, highlighted by her peroxide hair. Her teeth were yellowed from tobacco, far too much flesh on show, her eyes deep and brown, like melted chocolate. The little shrine sent shivers down her spine.

She tottered to the sofa, lowering Seb onto it. Under his weight it sagged almost to the floor. A blanket strewn across it fell neatly over him. She fetched a bowl of water from the kitchen and washed the vomit from his face, placing a glass of water on the floor beside him. She poured herself a glass, gulping it down thankfully. She shivered, rubbing her arms. The place was like the Antarctic, she thought. She wondered when the heating had last been turned on. It felt like centuries ago. She opened the cupboard, half a thought of making a tea or coffee, but all that greeted her was a funky smell and a cupboard full of rotting fruit and veg. She pulled out saggy lettuces and tomatoes, browned apples and bananas. There was half a loaf of bread as well, so mouldy it looked like a furry smurf. Groaning with disgust she pulled everything out and carried it to the bin, holding it at arms length. There was no bag in the bin, however, just unidentifiable sludge and slime lining the bottom. She left the food on the draining board, determining to bring it with her when she left.

She made her way back to the sitting room. Seb was still semi conscious or half asleep, occasionally hiccupping and gasping. His tracksuit bottoms were dark with urine. She sat gingerly in an armchair, gazing at him. What a state for a sixteen year old, she thought. Of course, she herself had been in much the same condition once or twice at the same age, but her drunkenness had been an act of rebellion, partaken with friends, not of sadness and desperation, alone in a barely inhabitable dump. Tears pricked at her eyes. She wiped them away, conscious of the eyes of the dead upon her.

Seb turned and pulled the blanket up to his chin, curling his knees up underneath it. She watched him, sure she could physically feel her heart aching. He still had the plaster on his face, the bruises faded to a strange, purple-tinted peach. Curled up in a foetal position he looked achingly childlike, vulnerable and lost in the diamond patterned cocoon.

Rain pelted the windows, a cacophony of crashing and clattering. There was no television in the house, an old transistor radio sitting on the mantelpiece instead. There was a dusty VCR that probably had not seen a video for decades on the lower shelf of a TV stand, the same woman's face grinning out from the top of it, circled by empty cans of cider.

A door off the room swung gently in a draught. She rose, walking over to pull it closed, but stopped. This was his room, she thought, it must be, the musky, unwashed clothes smell of teenage boy giving it away. But it wasn't the bedroom of a teenage boy; where were the posters of bands and girls, rockstars and footballers, calendars of cars and cricket players? Where were the piles of clothes, the smelly trainers, the guitars and lightsabers, the stacks of DVDs and books, the Playstation and Xboxes? Where was the hair gel and the aftershave, the piles of magazines, the cricket bats and tennis balls? Where was the life, the soul? This could be anyone's bedroom or, more specifically, no one's. It called to her mind a life lived on the road, always ready to move, rootless. All it contained was a wardrobe, an old fashioned, stand alone type that was broken, the bottom fallen through, a mismatching chest of drawers and a single bed, the tangle of bedsheets on it the only proof that the room was not abandoned. She sighed, pulling the door shut behind her. The loud click it made as it shut startled Seb. He jumped, grabbing the blanket in his hands as he looked around.

'Seb,' she said, crouching by his head. He leapt up, pulling away from her with a cry.

'It's OK,' she said quickly. 'It's me, Jess, remember me?'

He licked his dry, cracked lips, staring at her with a concentrated frown. 'What -' He croaked. 'How -?'

'Here.' She picked up the pint of water. 'Drink.'

He gulped it down, emerging from the bottom of the glass only when it was empty. He shivered. She reached up, placing a hand on his forehead. It was warm but not unnaturally so, drenched in sweat. She drew away.

'You're in a rough way,' she said sympathetically.

'What are you doing here?' His voice was scratchy and hoarse. 'How did you get in? Where's Olly?'

She sat gingerly on the edge of the sofa, brushing his hair off his face. It was a habit acquired from marriage, grooming her husband initially in affection, then merely in habit.

'I didn't see Olly,' she said soothingly. 'Is he your friend?'

Seb looked thoughtful. He opened his mouth to reply. She waited. He pitched forward suddenly, pale, almost clear but lumpy vomit gushing forth. She snatched the bowl, holding it up to his face. He took it in his hands, heaving and retching. She rubbed his back, feeling his body jerk and heave as he spewed. He stopped, gasping for air. His back shivered and shook under her palm. She stroked it gently.

'Do you need to get sick again?' She asked. 'Maybe you should go to the bathroom?' He shook his head.

'You sure?'

He nodded. 'I'm - it's all gone,' he whispered.

She smiled. 'Well there can't be much left by the looks of it.'

He coloured, mortified.

'Here.' She took the blanket, wrapping it around him. 'Move down a bit. Hold onto that, in case you need it again. I'll go see what I can find to clean this up.'

In the kitchen she procured a rag and a bottle of bleach from under the sink. She ran the tap for hot water, but none came. Sighing, she made her way back to the sitting room. Seb sat, curled up as small as he could make himself at the other end of the sofa. His face was pale and drawn, his eyes bloodshot. He blinked at her from behind his knees. She slipped off her coat and knelt down to clean the carpet. He watched her, eying her like a wary pup. She sat back, screwing the lid back on the bleach. The sharp aroma of it filling the room was a relief.

'Feeling any better?'

He shrugged. She smiled sympathetically. 'Rotten feeling, isn't it? Still, if you've got it out that's half the battle. You haven't got any aspirin or anything about?'

He shook his head.

'Hmm, let me see what I've got in my bag. Ginger is what you want, they say that's good for an upset stomach.'

'I'm OK,' he croaked. 'I'm fine.'

She put aside the bowl of water and bleach and sat back on the sofa.

'What were you drinking?' She asked, a little too brightly.

He shrugged. 'Wine...whisky...and...I dunno...'

She shook her head. 'You know they say never mix grape and grain don't you? Mind you, whisky doesn't mix too well with anything. And it's very hard on the stomach alright.'

He looked away, his intense gaze diverting from her. She clasped her hands over her knees.

'Well,' she said. 'I came over to see how you were. After the other day and all. Well, I went to Peter Clarke's to see the car, thought I might see you there as well but obviously not, and I was a little worried so I thought I'd come over to check on you. Actually, that's just reminded me.' She dived for her bag, fishing out her phone. 'I promised Pete I'd give him a text, let him know you're alright.' She bent her head over her phone, tapping the screen.

'How - how'd you get in?' Seb asked. When he talked it was like he was forcing the words from his mouth, like they didn't want to leave and he had to physically drag them out, at great personal cost judging by his blushes. She felt for him; he was so inordinately shy and mistrustful. She wondered how much of that was adolescence and how much his childhood.

'You were passed out in the hallway,' she said. 'You had the keys in your hand so I opened the door and brought you in.' She decided to spare him anymore blushes and not mention that she had rifled through his pockets. He nodded.

'I - I don't remember how I got home,' he said, frowning. He stared off. She followed his gaze to the coffee table, the flowers and photographs that gave her the creeps.

'Is that - is that your mum?' She asked. He nodded, lowering his eyes to his knees. 'She - she looks like a very happy woman.'

He said nothing, hugging his knees tighter to his chest. She foundered, lost for something to say. What do you say to a boy who'd lost both his parents, one of them only a few weeks ago? Who was on his own, orphaned, in a place like this? It was all so heartbreakingly dickensian.

'Maybe - maybe you could tell me about her?' She said. She thought he might like to talk about her, get it out. She remembered that was how she had felt when her father had died, how she'd wanted to tell everyone she met about the stupid things he used to say and do, the way he hated modern technology, didn't trust the internet or mobile phones, the stiff, clipped tones of his Received Pronunciation, his hatred of jeans and denim, his secret love of trashy TV. Then again, Seb did not seem the type of person to talk a whole lot. He eyed the photographs, his face giving nothing away. He turned back to her, his beautiful eyes fixing upon her face.

'What do you want to know?' He said flatly.

She shrugged. 'I - I don't know. I just thought...you might like to...talk about her, that's all.'

His gaze drifted, settling on her chest. He shrugged. 'Not really.' He looked back at his knees. She swallowed, blinking back tears. He meant it, but she didn't really believe it. She shifted along the sofa, reaching out. She took one of his hands, cupping both of hers around it. She felt him stiffen, tensing in her grip.

'I'd like to know about her,' she said softly. He looked at her sideways, as if she'd just come out with the most absurd thing he'd ever heard.

'Really?'

'Really. Come on, tell me about her. What sort of woman was she, what was she like?'

He looked back at the pictures, squinting. 'Loud,' he said slowly. Jessica nodded. 'Rude. Like as in - she swore a lot. And she was always smoking. She didn't like me.' He paused, thoughtful. 'No. She didn't know me.'

Jessica pursed her lips.

'She was murdered.' He turned his face back to her, his solid, intense gaze burning into her eyes. She caught her breath. 'She was strangled,' he said, matter-of-factly. 'She was stripped and beaten and then strangled. I saw the photographs.'

'Oh my god.' Jessica clutched his hand to her chest. 'Oh lord. Oh my god. That's - I never knew - oh my god...'

Seb shrugged. 'I don't know much else to tell you. I didn't really know her either.' His eyes fell to the hand she clasped in hers. 'Um...' he said slowly. 'Oh, she liked Duran Duran. And Take That. And she slept with a Lord once, when she was twenty. He paid a thousand pounds and they stayed in the Ritz.' He wasn't sure if that story was true, if it had been a figment of his mother's desperate, drunken imagination or a genuine recollection but it was all he could think to say about her. Jessica Carswell looked horrified.

'Oh,' he said suddenly remembering something. 'And I have this scar -' He pulled down the collar of his t-shirt, revealing a smooth silver scar the size of the bottom of a mug on the side of his neck. 'From when she chucked oil at me at Christmas. She was on drugs, she thought I was trying to kill her.' He let his collar go. 'I was actually trying to surprise her with the present I'd - I'd got. I was lucky. She tripped and missed my face.'

Jessica Carswell was well and truly and stumped. She gaped, still clutching Seb's hands in hers, squeezing it in time with her wordless mouthing.

'That's really all I know about her,' he shrugged.

'Good god,' she whispered.

Silence fell between them. Seb stared at their hands, his gaze steady and unreadable. Usually, Jessica was uncomfortable with silence, especially the sort pregnant with thought and memory, but what could she say? The boy's damaged, wary vulnerability was suddenly explicable beyond an orphaned teenager living alone. He shrugged and looked up at her, his eyes like pools, blue and big enough to drown in.

'You don't have to feel sorry for me cause she's dead,' he said. 'It's not really any different to when she was alive.'

That statement struck her harder than anything he'd said before. She shook her head. It compounded, emphasised everything he'd just said. She blinked back angry, pitiful tears.

'Do you - do you have any painkillers?' He asked, his cheeks pinkening.

'Gosh, yes, let me see.' She let go of his hand, glad to be able to do something more pragmatic. 'Here.' She resurfaced from her bag with a shiny strip of pills, popping a couple of them into her palm. 'I'll go fetch you some water.' She stood up to head to the kitchen but he threw them in his mouth and swallowed them dry.

'Ooh,' she shuddered. 'I never know how anyone does that.'

He shrugged, the shrug his trademark move. It was the most stereotypically teenage thing about him.

'You must be starving,' she said. He shrugged again, but he didn't fool her. She thought of the food in his cupboards, and wondered if there were actually any utensils for cooking with. She doubted it.

'How about,' she said slowly, 'I head down to the Chinese and pick some stuff up? You'll be wanting to satiate those post wine munchies.' She forced a smile. He nodded. She felt his eyes on her as she slipped out, pulling a face at the smell in the hallway.

She doubted the food from the Chinese two doors down was going to be the most tasty or nutritious of gelatinous goop, but it would satisfy the boy's hunger and her desire to do something practical, as well as her almost motherly impulse to feed him. Balancing the brown paper bags she made her way back to Seb's flat. He answered the door, dressed only in a towel, his body covered in water and goosebumps, his nipples sharp and pink against the white of his flesh. She wasn't expecting to see him half naked and wet, his tattooed torso glittering in the dim light. He said nothing, padding into the sitting room. She stepped in, watching his back disappear across the room and into the bedroom.

When he reappeared she had dished out the prawn crackers and spring rolls, black bean tofu, sweet and sour veg, chow mein, chicken satay and three portions of chips and rice, with the most unappetising looking pineapple fritters for pudding. Seb stared at the food, in awe or disgust one would never know, for he did indeed give nothing away.

'Well, help yourself,' she said, motioning to the food. 'That one's chicken, but all the rest are vegetarian.'

He stood, staring at it. She waited. He picked up a plate, spooning some of the tofu onto it. She sighed and began dishing the chicken and rice onto her plate.

'Try the spring rolls,' she suggested. 'Let me know if they're in any way edible.' She laughed. He didn't.

They ate wordlessly, the only sounds their mouths and the cries of people out in the street. An idea was forming in Jessica's mind. She decided not to say anything about it, until she was sure he was feeling better. If nothing else he at least smelled better.

'Is it alright?' She asked tentatively. It actually had to be worse than her cooking, she thought, which was saying something.

Seb nodded vigorously, shovelling a forkful of noodles into his mouth.

'You don't go to school, do you?' She asked, though she already knew the answer. He shook his head. 'When did you - when did you stop?'

He looked up at her from under his eyebrows, a tiny, almost impish smile playing across his face. 'Yonks,' he said. 'Yonks and yonks ago.'

She laughed. He was mocking her! Good naturedly, mischievously teasing. She felt a surge of affection for the boy.

'So - you have no exams or anything?'

He shook his head. She took a mouthful of rice and thought. Swallowing, she said, 'Did they never - didn't they make you?'

He shrugged, eyes only for his food. 'They...forgot about me I s'pose,' he said. 'Didn't barely go anyway so what's the point?'

'Well, the point is it's against the law. For you, for the adults in charge of you.'

He shrugged. She guessed the vagaries of the law were not of particular importance to Seb, or anyone he'd ever dealt with. She sighed.

'Pete was telling me you're a dab hand with motorbikes,' she said by way of changing the conversation. He nodded shyly. 'Bet you'd like one yourself someday hey? Boys always seem to want motorbikes at your age.'

'I - Pete gave me one,' he said.

'Gave you one?'

He reddened. 'After - after my mum died. Pete gave me a motorbike.'

'That was nice of him,' she said. Typical Pete, she thought. 'Have you driven her yet?'

He shook his head. 'I - I had to do her up,' he said, his face blazing. 'But she's nearly ready now.'

She smiled.

'Seb,' she said gently. The sound of his name seemed to startle him. He looked up, his eyes wide. 'I wondered if I could ask you something.' He looked positively terrified. 'Feel free to say no.' He blinked, looking as if she'd just told him he'd won the lottery and he didn't really believe her. 'I've had an idea for a photo series I'd like to do. It's just an idea at the moment,' she added quickly. 'But I'd like to give it a bash I think. I'd really like you to be part of it. If you'd like to.'

'Me?' He said stupidly.

'Well, it probably won't be just you, but I'd like to start with you. It wouldn't be too formal or anything, don't worry, and only whatever you feel comfortable with. As I said it's only an idea at the moment, I'd need to think of a more definite plan but it's something...well, I'd like you to consider it anyway. Will you do that?'

'What is it, like, taking pictures of me?'

She laughed. 'Yes, it would most likely involve that I should imagine. Will you consider it anyway, think about it? For me?'

He shrugged slowly and nodded. She smiled. 'Excellent!' She resisted the urge to grab him by the cheeks and plant a kiss on his forehead, conscious of embarrassing him further. She felt like an over zealous aunt, the one who's always mortifying you with kisses and cuddles and loud exclamations about how tall you'd grown. Then again, she thought, kisses and cuddles were just what this boy needed.

He put aside his plate suddenly, looking queasy. Jessica frowned. 'Seb,' she said. 'Are you OK?'

He nodded, but he didn't look it. He leapt up suddenly and ran, out of the kitchen and down the hall. Through the door the sound of him retching and vomiting carried up the hall. Poor boy had eaten too much, too quickly, she thought. Most likely he wasn't used to such heavy food, especially in such a quantity. She let him at it. She gathered up the plates and dishes, tucking the leftovers into the fridge. She filled the kettle for the washing up. A few minutes later Seb reappeared in the doorway, red eyed and pale, swaying slightly.

'Oooh, you don't look too good honey,' she said, pouring the boiling water into the sink. He shook his head. She put aside the kettle and came towards him. The smell of mint from his breath was overpowering.

'Oof,' she laughed, waving a hand before her face. 'Overkill on the toothpaste darling.' She looked at his face, an attractive face, though not typically handsome, his features angular and defined, a high, almost haughty look his natural visage.

'Maybe you should go and lie down,' she said, taking his hand in hers. It was ice cold and clammy. 'Get some rest. I'll finish the washing up and head off after that.'

He nodded. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. 'Go on then. Rest up and refresh.' She smiled. He frowned, as if perplexed. She waited, smiling. He bit his lip.

'Seb,' she said gently. 'Are you -'

Before she could finish he swooped forward, his lips landing on hers. She froze, stunned. She blinked, his eyelids swimming before her. He drew back, his face pink. She could feel her own flushing. He pulled his hand from hers and ran. His bedroom door slammed shut, echoing through the flat. She turned slowly back to the kitchen, still stunned, and began the washing up.

9

The bike was done. She was fixed up, polished and ready to go, her muscular frame gleaming like a bodybuilder in a show. Seb stood back, admiring her with satisfaction. She stood to his waist, gleaming in the grubby light of the garage. He stroked her seat, the soft leather he had fitted himself pressing firmly under his hand. He slung a leg over, settling himself onto the seat. He ran his hands over the handlebars and marvelled at his own work, the raw beauty of the machine between his thighs. He had gone cold and hungry for this bike, he thought. And she was worth every ache and shiver, every numb limb and cough. He shifted, testing her suspension. It was perfect, precision engineered by himself for his own weight. She would be his best friend, he thought, the one thing he could truly rely on, because he had built her with his own hands, she was his baby. She wouldn't be weird or confusing, change her mind for no reason, she wouldn't leave him with a baby, rock in at 6 a.m. off her tits on stolen speed and paranoid she was being followed by the men it was stolen off. No, she would be wordless and trustworthy, in a way no human ever could be.

'There you are. Should have known.'

Seb started. Clarke strolled towards him, out of his overalls already, scrubbed up and ready to go wherever he was off to.

'The twins told me you'd left...I did think that was strange alright, when there was so little left to do. How's she running? You try her on the road yet?'

Seb nodded. 'Good.'

'Good?' Clarke grinned slyly. 'You put in all that work, and she's only "good"?' He tilted his head, surveying the bike. 'I took the liberty of having a little test of her yesterday, just to see. Just to check out your work, safety precautions and that.' He winked. Seb looked blankly back at him.

'You've changed a couple of bits.' Clarke reached out, running a hand along the seat behind Seb. Seb nodded. 'How did you know - I assume you softened the preload to suit you?'

Seb nodded. Clarke puffed, shaking his head again. 'Pimp my ride motocross style hey?'

Seb said nothing. Clarke sighed. He could never get anything from this kid, he thought.

'Guess you're dying to take her out for your first proper ride?'

Seb nodded. Clarke stood back, folding his arms. 'Well,' he said again. 'You can do that. When you've taken the time off I told you to take after your mother's death.'

Seb frowned. 'What?'

'I told you to take time off after your mum. You didn't and I think it's having a...an adverse affect on you. I want you to take time off, and no excuses. Just a few days, a week say. She's not going anywhere.' He tapped the seat of the bike. 'She'll be here, ready and waiting. A nice treat for you when you come back eh?'

Seb gripped the handlebars tightly.

'I don't want time off,' he said.

'Don't worry, I won't take it from your holidays.'

'I don't want time off,' Seb insisted. His throat felt tight. 'I - I want to work.'

Clarke sighed. 'Your dedication's admirable Seb, but it's not a choice. You're taking time off. You've had a tough time of it recently and -'

'Jessica,' Seb said. Clarke stopped.

'Yes,' he said slowly. 'I've been talking to Jess. She's very concerned about you.'

Seb's heart collided with his Adam's apple. She was concerned, she was talking about him. She cared.

'How do you know her?' He demanded.

Clarke was taken aback.

'I - we - well.' His face coloured. 'We used to - well, we used to...go out I suppose. A long time ago. But that's not the p -'

Seb leapt off the bike, stalking towards the door. Clarke spun around after him.

'Seb,' he called. 'Seb! Where are you -'

Seb ignored him, storming out of the yard into the street. A mangy dog skulked by the entrance, nibbling on a crust of bread. Seb kicked at it furiously, his heavy work boot catching it in the ribs. The dog yelped and ran, fast and skinny as a greyhound. Seb refused to feel remorse. He cursed the dog, anger swirling about painfully in his chest. The evenings were thoroughly dark now; winter was well and truly here. The flush in Seb's face insulated him from the cold, blood thundering about his temples, the sound of waves pounding at his head.

He was not going home. Olly had moved in, escaped the clutches of Hettie Trench, and he couldn't face him right now; he'd be coming down, cranky and depressed and he, Seb, would be left to look after Emily again. He kicked angrily at the graffitied metal of a shop front, so hard alarms began to sound. He walked on, kicking at anything and everything in his way.

He felt in his pocket for change, dredging out a heavy handful. Just enough for a bottle of wine, he reckoned. He sidled into a supermarket, self conscious and still angry, but the girl at the counter had no interest, absorbed in her phone and a trashy magazine. Tucking one bottle inside his overalls he crept up to the till, placing another on the counter. The girl barely glanced at him, scanning it through and muttering the price. Seb chucked the money on the counter and ran. In the street he unscrewed the lid, gulping the bottle down as fast as he could. It tasted awful but it hit him fast, his empty stomach routing the alcohol straight to his head. He stumbled down the street, savouring the fuzzy feeling that washed over him. He was still angry, but now the anger was blurred, wrapped in a bubble wrap of wine induced emotion. Olly and Dolly and Jess and Norman floated in his head, Peter Clarke and the twins and Jessica, Jessica, beautiful, kind Jessica. He opened the second bottle, taking three long draughts. His stomach trembled in protest.

And Olly, Olly who went off nicking drugs for fun because he thought it was cool, because he wanted to be tough like the other kids he saw, when he was better than that, could be better than all of them, and had a kid, an innocent baby who'd done nothing but be born, to a psycho murderer and a wannabe drug lord. Seb felt for her. He cared for the baby, though he couldn't really say why. She was innocent and vulnerable and he felt a sort of duty to protect her from the life he'd had. So he wasn't about to kick Olly out, even if Emily had woken him at four a.m. the last few nights. He took some satisfaction from the fact that Emily had probably been tormenting him all day as he came down. He would buy her a present, he thought, in thanks.

He stepped into a toyshop, not quite sure how he'd gotten where he was. The shop was hopping, lights and sounds and the squeals of eager children filling the cavernous room. It was weeks and weeks to Christmas, but the place sparkled and shone with fairy lights and tinsel, ringing with the sounds of toys and music and excited children. Seb blinked and stared. He tried to remember the last time he was in a toyshop. He remembered wandering into them as a kid, dreaming up lists of things he wanted Santa to bring, every year hoping that would be the year Santa would bring something. He thought of that as he gaped around, the giant stuffed animals, remote control cars, video games, action figures, and felt another stab of anger as he recalled the Christmas nights in bed, not crying because he never cried, but angry, furious, hating god and Santa and anyone else who judged him as a bad child, a naughty child. So maybe he was, but it was no thanks to them, and who were they to judge? Fuck them. Fuck them. Fuck them.

'OI!'

The shout rang out across the store. Seb ran. Children scattered before him, gawping. He ran for the exit, vaguely impressed by his own speed despite his drunkenness, prouder still as he dodged the security guard at the door, spinning into the street. People turned and stared. He barrelled past them, knocking the shoppers and smokers, stumbling into the road. Horns blasted. He set off at a gallop, through a park, wobbling as he clutched wine and a stuffed cat to his chest, the sharp coldness biting at his face. He ran and ran, until he was sure no one was chasing him. His breath came in ragged gasps, blasting clouds into the world around him. He sank onto a bench and gasped. His head spun. He clutched the back of the bench, swaying, and polished off the last of the wine. The moon shone above him, casting the park in an eerie silver glow. He wondered how it didn't fall out of the sky; it had looked very heavy when he'd seen it on TV. He knew about gravity, so how did the moon and the stars and the clouds stay up in the sky? He gazed at it, clutching the cat to his stomach. It was quite pretty, he thought, or would be, in another part of town. Jessica's home perhaps, her skin and lips glowing in the moonlight, her breasts pale and large and her voice, smooth and crisp, soothing him, calming him, sneering, laughing at him, taunting him, taunting his looks and his clothes and the cat until he flipped and WHAM, in went his fist, his knuckles meeting bone. The moonlight flashed and danced, his cheeks stinging. He punched blindly, kicked, his heavy boot driving into soft flesh and thump again, again and again, all his anger and frustration spilling over into his feet cracking and crashing into flesh and bone. The body at his feet whimpered and wept, but Seb kicked harder, the crack of bones and head beneath his feet. A knife clattered to the ground, its blade dulled by blood in the moonlight. He screamed, a furious roar, dragging the body onto the bench. A boy, not much older than himself, the front of his tracksuit bottoms wet and warm. His friends had run, he was alone. One last surge of fury tore through Seb. He slammed the boy's head onto the corner of the bench and let him go. He crumpled to the ground, gurgling a stream of dark, sticky blood that trailed in his wake.

He lay still. Seb turned him over with his foot. His features were invisible, mangled and bloody. He was breathing. Seb raised his foot and stamped for good measure. The boy's hand crunched like gravel beneath his boot.

He stepped back, gathering up the cat. It was covered in blood, damp and heavy in his hand. He ran, his mind blurred and swimming. It was a long time since he'd done anything like that. It scared him. No, of course it didn't, nothing scared him. It just annoyed him, the blood all over the cat, the cat he had got for Emily.

Rain began to fall, thin sheets at first, then heavy droplets that soaked into the stuffed toy. Mr Muffles he had called it. He trudged home, trailing his feet through the mush of soggy leaves and cigarette butts, cold and shaking, the world swaying unsteadily in front of him.

'Bloody ell.'

Seb glanced up, Olly's reflection pale and drawn in the mirror.

'What fook appened you?' Olly made his way into the bathroom, gawping. Seb shrugged, wincing as he rinsed off the gash on his arm. Olly stared wide-eyed at the slash that cut through Seb's bicep, a bright gash splicing through his tattoo.

'Mate, you need to get to ospital,' he said. Seb shook his head.

'No.'

'Lad that needs stitches.' Olly snatched his arm suddenly. Seb flinched and tried to pull away, but Olly gripped it tightly. Pain shot down his arm and through his shoulder. He turned it, squinting in the dim bathroom light. The wound was wide and surprisingly deep. The skin at the edges curled outwards around a thick yellowy centre, like a gruesome flower.

'Yep,' Olly nodded. 'That needs stitches. An a tetanus shot if it's what ah fooken think it is. Coom on.'

Still gripping Seb's arm, the blood spilling down over his hand, he dragged him into the kitchen, fishing in his pocket for his phone. Seb sat, shaking and nauseous, as Olly called a taxi and wrapped his arm in cling film.

'Ahm guessin,' he said, stepping back to scrutinise Seb's face. 'That whatever bastard did that t'yuh came off second best?'

Seb said nothing. Olly tossed aside the roll of plastic and nodded.

'Well ah'd best fetch that lil lady o mine then if we're to make a trip to the ole V 'n' D. You keep that arm up an think a good bedtime tale for me an Ems when we get back yeah? Bout that beauty.'

Seb blinked, staring at the chipboard cupboards that swayed in front of him. His arm looked like a ham, he thought vaguely, the blood splurging against the plastic wrap, a horror movie prop. Pain was starting to set in now, real pain. He followed Olly and a sleepy, startled Emily downstairs, Olly's free arm wrapped around him, keeping him upright, the world a vague blur around him.

'Phwoar,' Olly said, passing him a cup of hot chocolate. 'Ah can't believe you got stabbed.'

Casualty bustled around them, quiet but active. Seb reclined on a rattling bed, clutching the hot chocolate to his chest for warmth. In his other arm he held Emily, relinquishing her to her father as he returned.

'You're officially ard now,' Olly said, settling into the bedside chair. 'Seb Daly,' he said, holding up his hand as if framing the words. 'Hard boy.'

Seb made a vague noise of acknowledgment. Olly got himself comfortable, tucking Emily into his chest.

'Ah were in a knife fight before,' he said. 'Got cut alright. Not proper stabbed though.'

He was impressed. Seb's stomach somersaulted.

'See?' He pulled up the sleeve of his jumper, revealing a long, thin, pink scar on his forearm. 'No near as cool as yours'll be.'

There was nothing cool about this, Seb thought. He felt awful. They'd given him drugs, wrapped him in blankets over the coat Olly had tucked around him, stitched his arm and steri-stripped his face but he still felt sick and weak and in a lot of pain, so much he could only grit his teeth and concentrate upon it.

Olly filled him in on the injuries and accidents and complaints of his fellow patients. Seb did not listen, watching Emily snooze against her father's shoulder, an island of calm in the bustling hospital.

'I got her a present,' he said slowly, his voice heavy and thick. Olly turned to him.

'Ya what?'

Seb frowned, concentrating through the pain. 'Emily,' he said with deliberation. 'I - I got her a present but...' He pictured the fluffy white stuffed cat, mauve with blood, his own and someone else's. 'It got...blood.'

Olly smiled, not his usual cheeky grin but a soft, happy smile. 'Aw,' he said quietly. 'Mate that's too kind. Ahm sure we can get it cleaned up. I aven't been able to get er any new toys for ages, ah were opin me dad might wire me some cash for some what wi Christmas an all comin, but ah guess e don't trust me. Not that ya can blame im, can yeh?' He grinned. Seb forced a smile. 'But nah, that's top. Ahm really pleased. Thanks mate.'

Seb felt a strange warmth in his stomach, like he was eating soup. His mind felt a little fuzzy, but it sort of made sense, he thought, the whole friendship thing. You did something for someone because you liked them. And they did something for you too, not in return, but they just did, like Olly had, helping him, keeping him warm and conscious and buying him food and hot chocolate and paying for the taxi and not minding that the plastic he'd wrapped around Seb's arm had seeped onto his jacket.

When he would look back on that night in years to come, he wouldn't remember much of what happened. He'd remember blocks of whiteness, the hospital probably, and clutching Emily in one hand while Olly fetched the hot chocolate. He'd have a vague image of a young woman with pink lipstick, the harassed but patient student doctor and Olly, by his side, paying for the cab, for food and extra painkillers, Olly's coat around him, his body warm and supportive, tucking the blankets around him, Olly impressed, Olly in awe, Olly a jester and a nurse, but the one thing he'd recall even more than the strange feeling of friendship, after the needles and the pain, he would recall the sodden cat, soggy, glassy eyed and stained, staring.

10

Jessica Carswell stood, staring at the work that hung before her. I hate you, she thought savagely. Around her the house echoed with emptiness, her thoughts bouncing off the walls and back at her. It was too big, too grand, a house designed for hordes of people, for dances and servants, caddish gentlemen, rakish lovers. Not a lone woman living in three or four rooms. It wasn't really hers, she thought, not really. She hated it too.

The basement darkroom was the only place that seemed right. Warm and dark, soothing her head that throbbed from the remainders of the previous night, alcohol and cringing. The pictures that hung before her were hideous. They were not what she wanted, and yet she could not figure what she wanted. She wanted something alright, but these were not it.

She sighed. That was a lie, and she knew it. She knew exactly what she wanted, she just had not figured out how to get it.

Seb. She wanted Seb. Seb, with those fabulously deep blue eyes, who had sixteen years of stories to tell with them. Seb, with his curious mix of vulnerability and toughness; that was what she wanted to capture. His delicacy, his danger. But he was so wary, so tightly wound. Getting him out of himself would not be a case of a few jokes and some music he liked, she knew that. And there was the kiss. Her face coloured even as she thought about it, horrified and yet rather flattered. His sweetness touched her, hinted at an innocence his toughness belied, and that was exactly it. He was a child, a vulnerable one at that. For all his streetwise hardness he lacked a certain worldliness, a knowledge of people gained from relationships with them, not the dribs and drabs of association that made up Seb's experiences. The kiss had been a sensual act but, while she didn't doubt the sexual desire behind it, she knew he was looking for something more than that. It was something he couldn't express, even if he knew what it was himself, which she doubted. And it was that that she wanted to give, she told herself, pinning up the final picture. She had no kids, no one to feed or help. No husband, no sick parent. Her nieces lived too far away. The fact this skinny blue eyed teen kept preying on her mind was motherly instinct, and the guilt she fought was her knowledge of his desire. She wanted to help, and he wanted help, but what he thought he wanted and what she knew he needed, were at odds. How could she build him up, just to let him down?

"Boundaries." Her father's tight tones echoed in her head. "Boundaries are what children need, and plenty of them.

She ran a finger around the lens cap of a camera, gazing at the unsatisfactory mess that dangled before her.

'Boundaries,' she said aloud. 'Boundaries.'

That was it, boundaries.

'Where can I take you madam?'

The taxi driver was large and friendly-faced, a chipper guv'nor sort, as she would have called him back in the day.

She told him where to go. He pulled off without a blink and she felt somehow reassured, relieved almost. She settled back, clutching her bag to her stomach like a shield. The driver chatted as they went, cheerful and friendly. She smiled and "mmmed" and nodded, trying her best to look as if she were paying attention.

The houses rotted away gradually, to rubble and tower blocks, half empty relics of a failed time. She stared at them, wondering at the fearsome sort of poetry in their sharp angles and symmetry, the neat lines of balcony and apartment contrasting with the scrawled graffiti and clothes, simultaneously orderly and chaotic.

'D'you hear about what happened in there yesterday?' The driver asked.

'No,' she said, attempting to convey in two letters that she did not know and did not really wish to, though she knew she'd have no choice.

'Two boys shot. Kids, fifteen I think one of them was, nineteen the other. Brothers. Robbed a local drug dealer apparently, though there's no official version, "gang related" I think they're saying. S'pose it could be, but robbing a drug dealer's not the smartest thing now, is it? They were given the rough treatment before the bullet too, made to suffer first. Heard tell one of the boys lost half a jaw, bled so much shooting was a mercy more than anything. Shocking stuff. Can't imagine what their parents must be going through, can you?'

She shook her head. Her stomach churned behind her handbag.

'Does that - does that sort of thing happen a lot?' She asked. 'Around here?'

The driver pulled a face. 'Well, shootings used to happen a lot more, 'fore they clamped down on gun crime, but...' He shrugged. 'If you want someone dead, or warned, there's plenty more ways than shooting them, know what I mean?'

Jessica nodded. She didn't, but this time she was sure she didn't want to.

'Well, this is you.' They pulled over outside the pub. Jessica looked out and upwards, a sickening sadness clutching at her throat.

'Take care won't ya?' The driver said as she slipped out. He shrugged with a half smile. 'The place ain't as bad as its reputation but...always best to be on your guard right?' He smiled and nodded. She smiled and nodded back.

He drove off slowly and she stood, gazing up at Seb's windows, aware she was attracting attention. Why was she here? It was a weekday, the middle of the day. Over eager, impulsive. She always had been. She sighed, gathering her stuff. She should have gone to Pete's, obviously. What was there for her here?

She glanced around. There was the pub. She took it in, grubby and rough looking, the sort of place you wondered how it made enough money to stay open. The last time she'd been in such an establishment she must have been about twenty she reckoned, sticking out like the sorest thumb.

She sighed. There was nothing for it. A drink would do her good anyway. She turned and jumped.

'Seb! God.' She put her hand to her chest and laughed, a little too highly. 'You gave me a fright.'

The boy, hood up, hovered in the shadows, staring. He shrugged. His eyes were wide and dark beneath the hood, as wary and unreadable as ever. She'd seen flashes in them though, moments of vulnerability and fear, when he looked what he was, a lonely child in a tough, tough world. What she wanted to capture.

'What are you doing?' She asked, relaxing a little now he was there. 'Shouldn't you be at work?'

He shrugged. She waited for him to respond. He was so shy, so wary. He looked away.

'Off,' he muttered.

'Ah. Well, everyone needs a holiday now and again,' she said. 'Especially you. After all you've been through the last few weeks.'

He nodded slowly, as if he didn't quite agree. The bruises she had seen inflicted upon him had healed, but there was another nick now, a slash across his left cheekbone, neatly - and freshly - stitched. She felt something catch in her throat. She swallowed, pushing it down.

'What -' She nodded at his face, ignoring her stomach. 'What happened to you?'

He shrugged, his eyes sliding away from hers, fox like, slinking. He stole past her, slipping his key into the lock. He paused.

'Are you - are you coming up?' He mumbled.

'Well, if you don't mind. It's your home.'

He shrugged, his eyes firmly on the step. He held the door open, avoiding her gaze. She took the open door as an invitation, stepping into the hallway. He slipped in behind her, leaving them in semi darkness as the door clicked shut behind him. Their breath seemed louder in the darkness, heartbeats bouncing off the walls. She stepped forward, feeling tentatively for the flotsam and jetsam she remembered being scattered about the floor.

'Here.' He took her hand, warm and moist in her cold one.

He stepped to the side, with a deafening crash that made her jump as he kicked some junk aside. She followed him through the hallway, clinging to his hand as he kicked and bashed a way through the rubble and junk. It was like Tarzan tearing his way through the jungle. She giggled suddenly at the thought, Seb in a loincloth, taking the lead, ripping through the undergrowth for Jane. He glanced at her, his eyebrows knitting in bemusement.

'Sorry,' she said. 'I just thought of - of something funny.'

They reached the stairs, the grimy window bathing them in a ghoulish glow. He stopped.

'We're - through,' he muttered.

'My knight in shining armour,' she smiled. He stared down. She followed his gaze to their hands, fingers plaited together in neat rows between them. He slid his hand out slowly and turned, continuing up the stairs. She followed, casting a glance down the hall.

'The police tape is gone,' she observed, noting that the door of number two was wide open. Seb slipped the key into the lock. He followed her glance down the hall.

'Yeah,' he said. 'Robbed.' He pushed open the door.

'Robbed?' She followed him in. What on earth could there be to rob? She wondered. 'I heard about those two kids who were shot,' she said. 'For stealing drugs.'

Seb nodded, shrugging off his hoodie. 'Yeah,' he said as he pulled it over his head. 'I knew them.'

She gasped. 'You knew them?'

He nodded, chucking the jumper onto an armchair. 'Know who killed them too,' he muttered, brushing past her towards the kitchen.

'You know?' She turned, trotting after him. 'Seb, you have to go to the police.'

He laughed.

'Really. It's - I don't know, they have a word for it, moral duty or something - you have to go to the police and tell them what you know. You can do it anonymously, just ring them and say, or - or - send a note or something...' She shook her head.

He shrugged, fetching a loaf of cheap white bread from the cupboard. 'And lose my home?' He said matter-of-factly. 'Lose my limbs?'

He turned, stuffing a folded slice of bread into his mouth. Jessica sighed. She sank onto a chair, lowering her luggage to the floor.

'You know?' She said. 'Really know? Who did - that?'

He shrugged. 'That. And more.' He reached for another slice of bread. She watched him, searching his face for - well, she wasn't sure, for something; she wondered what secrets, what unspoken horrors lay behind that mask, no doubt cultivated to hide such knowledge. He'd had such a hard life, she thought sadly. He was older, more worldly than she'd been at his age. He'd seen more in sixteen years than she was sure she'd seen in more than twice that. She wasn't really surprised he knew, or that he refused to go to the police. The latter she couldn't really blame him for, she had to admit, she probably wouldn't grass on homicidal drug dealers either. She was sure he did know other things he wouldn't tell about too. A cauldron of mystery he was. Had to be, to survive.

'Did you know them well? The boys who were - killed?'

Seb shrugged. 'One of them. Kind of.'

She shook her head. The boy's life was one tragedy after another, she thought.

'I'm sorry,' she murmured.

He shrugged. 'Stupid thing to do,' he said flatly. 'Should've known better.' He tore a chunk of bread with his teeth and continued eating, unfazed.

His denouncement was succinct, but fitting. Not for an epigraph, but for him, the world he'd grown up in, the attitude needed to get by. And the truth no doubt.

'I don't have anything to drink...' he said, suddenly self conscious. 'Like tea or anything...'

She smiled. 'That's OK. I'll just have some water actually, now that you mention it.' She laughed. She made herself laugh.

He fetched a glass from the cupboard, filling it with water from the tap, and brought it to her.

'What's that?' He asked, nodding at her baggage as he placed the glass on the table.

'Camera stuff,' she replied. His face coloured.

'You're - you're still going to...' He shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged.

'Do the pictures? Yes of course. If you still want to that is.'

He turned away, stepping back to his loaf of bread on the counter. 'I thought you wouldn't want to,' he said. 'I thought you were mad at me.'

She sighed and took a sip of water. It was refreshingly cold. 'I...was,' she said slowly.

'What have you been at today?' She steered the conversation away.

He shrugged. 'Tattoo parlour.'

'More tattoos?' She recalled him, clad only in a towel, the dark designs on his torso glittering with drops of water from his hair.

'Having one finished.'

She nodded. 'I'm just going to pop the camera out,' she said, slipping it out of its case. Seb twitched. She glanced up.

'Can I - can I see it?' He asked.

'Of course. Here.' She held it out. He took it, turning it over, examining it with fascination. He was like a child with a Christmas present, awed almost.

'You can try it if you like,' she said.

His eyes widened. He placed it quickly on the table and stood back, staring as if it were about to explode.

'Don't you want to?'

She eyed him, his face blankly staring at the camera. He shook his head. She plucked the camera from the table, popping the lens cap off.

'It's a Hasselblad,' she said, recalling his interest in machines. '503CW, an analogue camera. Film, that is. I have a digital back but I'm so old fashioned, especially with black and white. The lens is a CF -' She stopped, realising it was pointless going into the details. 'I was going to bring just a normal digital,' she said instead, adjusting the aperture. 'Just to get a feel, but I fancied trying them out with a proper camera instead.' She smiled up at him. That wasn't quite true, she knew; she wanted to capture him as well and as candidly as she possibly could. She was concerned about the camera's ability to do that, never having shot candidly with it before, but there was a first time for everything, she thought. She mounted the waist level viewfinder.

'I've seen them before,' Seb said. She glanced up. 'They sold them downstairs,' he added, taking another glass from the cupboard.

'Really?' She was surprised. 'Lots of clumsy truck drivers about is there?'

He laughed. Jessica smiled. She watched him as he filled the glass from the tap and turned around.

'What?' He said, looking worried.

She shook her head. 'It's nice to hear you laugh.'

His face coloured. She stood up quickly.

'Shall we do some now?' She said, motioning with the camera. He shrugged, taking a sip of water. His eyes, the eyes she so wanted to capture, peered widely over the top of the glass.

'It can wait. I can come back another time.'

He shook his head. 'No,' he said, placing the glass aside. 'No I can - I can do it now. Or whenever.' He blushed.

She smiled. 'Great. Well, let's go somewhere more relaxing shall we? The sitting room?'

He shrugged, avoiding her gaze.

'Come on.' She set off down the hall, wrinkling her nose at the smell. It was worse than before, if that was even possible, the musty scent of teenage boy, sweaty shoes and unwashed bedsheets, dirty nappies and alcohol. The cheap deodorant that had been sprayed to cover it up only added to the stench.

'Maybe we should open a window?' She suggested, stepping around the colourful plastic paypen. Seb nodded.

'Um - what do I do?' He asked as she tried to heave up the heavy, old fashioned window.

'Oh just - whatever you like,' she gasped. He stepped up beside her, slipping his hands under the sash. She stood back, watching as he put his back and shoulders into it.

'That's it,' she said. She pressed the camera. He heaved the window up and stood back.

'So...what, I just...be?' He frowned.

'You could put it that way. I'm not going to constantly take pics. Just now and again. I'm getting a feeler at the moment.'

He looked around the room, frowning. She snapped. He didn't notice.

'Olly might be back soon,' he said.

'Great, I'd love to meet him.'

He turned back to her. 'Why?'

'Why? Well, I don't know...he's your friend, isn't he?'

Seb shrugged. He sank slowly onto the armchair, leaning on his knees.

'Seb,' she said. He looked up.

'What happened to your face?'

He looked away again. 'Cut,' he muttered.

'I can see it's a cut. I meant, how did you get cut?'

He turned back to her slowly, his eyebrows raised as he looked up at her, his eyes so deep and so very blue.

'Cut,' he said. His voice chilled her.

'Of course,' she murmured. He lowered his eyes to the floor. She kept snapping.

'Who did it?'

He shrugged. 'Dunno.'

She nodded slowly, watching him. She talked, took photos, some candid, some posed. She laughed. But to her delight, more even than the pictures Seb provided just by being, he laughed. It was a shy laugh, a small laugh, a laugh that wanted to escape, to be free, but his eyes were nervous, unsure. He was so clammed up. She wanted to take him, unwind him, set him off into the world as a normal teenage boy, whose only cares in life were homework and his hair, the local football team and whether he was ever going to get laid. Not an orphan, scraping by, keeping his head down, stealing and starving just to survive.

'Are you sure you don't want a go on the camera?' She asked as the laughter subsided. Seb bit his lip.

'Oh, come here.' She grabbed his hand, pulling him from the arm of the sofa where he was perched, and onto the seat.

'Here.' She pushed the camera into his hands. He took it, holding it delicately, as if it were made of the finest bone china. He held it up and snapped, capturing the drab, dirty room. He turned to her, a mischievous smile creeping across his face.

'Oh don't.' She held her hands up over the lens. He grabbed one and pulled it down, the camera held over his head in his other hand.

'Oh no, I hate photos,' she protested, turning her face away. He laughed. She smiled. 'You're horrible Sebastien,' she said, holding her arm higher. 'A horrible, horrible boy. Mean.' She stuck her tongue out. He snapped and giggled.

'I got that.' He lowered the camera, gazing through the viewfinder. She straightened up, fixing her hair. He glanced sideways at her.

'You're really pretty,' he said quietly, his face turning a deep shade of scarlet.

'Oh.' She felt herself colour in unison. 'That's -'

The door burst open suddenly. They jumped.

'I come bearing gifts!' A small, slender boy with a heavily styled mop of blond hair staggered into the sitting room, a baby grasped tightly in one arm, two bags of shopping in the other.

'Oh, hello.' He stopped, taking in Jessica and Seb, blushing on the sofa. He lowered the bags to the floor, transferring the baby to the other hip. 'What's going on here?' He nodded at Seb. Seb shrugged. The boy rolled his eyes theatrically.

'I'm Olly,' he said, extending a hand towards Jessica. 'Seb's big bro. Brother.'

'Brother?' Jessica cocked an eyebrow, knowing exactly who Olly was. Seb stared at him. She glanced at Seb. 'You never told me you had a brother.'

'Yeah, he's a bit mindless like that,' the boy said, pumping her hand. 'Needs some brain training, dontcha bruv?'

'You don't sound like brothers.'

Olly chuckled. 'We grew up far apart. Different mums. Same dad though.'

'She's not the social,' Seb said.

Olly's eyes widened.

'I'm - my name's Jessica,' Jessica added helpfully.

'Oh.' Realisation dawned across Olly's face. 'Jessica.' He grinned, his voice laden with suggestion and inference. 'Yeah,' he chuckled. 'Seb hasn't shut up about you, have you lad?'

Jessica laughed. 'That right Seb?' She giggled. She regretted it instantly as Seb reddened and scowled. Olly seemed to sense Seb's displeasure. He lowered the child to the floor and drew a bottle out of one of the bags.

'Apple vodka,' he said with a devilish grin. Seb avoided his gaze. 'You'll have some, won't you?' He said to Jessica.

'Oh I don't know, I shouldn't...'

'Course you will. I'll pop it in freezer for a while before we lash into it. Here Seb, keep an eye on Emily will ya? She's started putting every bloody thing she can into her mouth. Kids huh?' He grinned at Jessica. She smiled.

'Nightmares,' she said conspiratorially. 'Delightful nightmares.'

Olly laughed. 'I'll drink to that. After I've chilled it.' He shot off down the hallway. Jessica turned to Seb. He sat on the sofa, camera clasped between his knees, rolling it over in his hands.

'Alright?' She said. He shrugged.

'I think I'm going to get some food,' she said brightly. 'What do you think? Fancy some pizza?'

'I'd fucking love some pizza.' Olly reappeared, gathering the baby into his arms, prying a brick of chunky Lego from her fist and mouth. 'Sick to death of oven chips I am, aren't we Ems?' He bounced the baby on his chest, planting a kiss on her forehead.

Seb stood up. 'I'm going out,' he muttered.

'No you're not,' Jessica said gently, taking his arm. 'Come on, what do you like on a pizza? I know a really good place that delivers.'

He pulled a face.

'I like meatballs,' Olly said.

Jessica smiled. 'We'll do that then. Seb?'

He shrugged. She rubbed his shoulder gently. He turned his eyes on her, large, dark orbs of storm clouds. Her heart gave a little jump.

'Fine,' he said. She smiled.

It was a daze, the evening. He was a cocky little bugger, that Olly, she thought, but in the delusional, endearing way of insecure teenagers and the apple vodka went down like water on a slide and the radio blasted Faithless and Seb, Seb smiled and laughed, and gazed at her with wonder, fear, admiration and lust. It was a long time since somebody had looked at her like that, she thought. They ate and drank and she delighted in his unsure smile as he almost relaxed.

The night wore on, and cold began to creep into the flat, a sharp, frosty cold that burrowed into the bones and festered. She pulled her cardigan about her.

'Gosh, it's freezing in here,' she said.

The boys jumped up.

'I'll get you a jumper,' Olly said.

'I'll do it.' Seb shot him a look.

Olly shrugged slowly. Seb slipped out, knocking into the doorframe in eagerness or drunkenness, or possibly both. Olly sat back down.

'Don't you have heating?' She asked, taking another sip of vodka.

'S oil, ain't it?' Olly said, topping up her glass. 'And Seb's on shit wages and all the money me dad sends me goes on her.' He nodded towards the sitting room, where Emily was fast asleep on the sofa. 'We were thinking of getting a portable radiator and running an extension from the flat next door. Maybe.'

'But it's so cold. And the winter -' She paused as Seb returned, laden down with jumpers and coats and thick knit sweaters. He proffered them towards her.

'Dunno which one you want,' he mumbled. He swayed slightly before her. As she reached out she realised it wasn't him that was swaying, but her.

'Oh,' she said, placing a hand on her head, as if that would steady her. 'Oh I - I think I'm - I think I should probably go.'

'Go?' Olly said.

'Go?' Seb pouted.

She rose unsteadily to her feet. 'Yes, I'd better. I can't exactly stay, can I?' She laughed. 'I'll just - I'll just call a taxi.'

She fumbled awkwardly with her phone.

'Allow me.' Olly drew his phone out with a flourish. Seb stood in the doorway, clutching the bundle of clothes to his chest. She smiled at him across the room. He stared blankly back.

'Ten minutes,' Olly declared, putting down the phone.

They polished off what was left of the vodka and the taxi arrived, blasting its horn from outside. Jessica rose, gathering her luggage.

'Lovely to meet you,' she said to Olly, her voice thick with alcohol.

'Pleasure,' he slurred with a nod. 'Do come again.'

'I'll walk you down.' Seb placed the clothes on a chair. 'Take this.' He held out the thickest of the tops, a chunky woollen, Arran-style cardigan.

'Oh I'll be OK -' she began, but he wrapped it around her, ignoring her protestations. He led her out of the door and into the hallway. It was even darker now that night had fallen, the hallway being devoid of any sort of unnatural light. He took her hand, leading her down the stairs. He was so sweet, she thought. So terribly sweet.

She could hear the rain crashing outside, as if the building were about to collapse around them. He reached up, undoing the lock on the door, and paused.

'You'll be back?' He said.

'Well, that depends,' she teased. In the streetlights she saw a muscle twitch in his cheek. She shouldn't tease him, she thought, she forgot what it was to be sixteen. But he reminded her; he reminded her as he kissed her again, properly this time. Her stomach flipped and danced, her body thrilled. This time it was easier to brush aside the doubts and objections that fidgeted restlessly at the edge of her brain. Perhaps it was the alcohol, smothering the scolding, the disapproval that told her she shouldn't; he was too young, too vulnerable, and she - she was too old; too desperate. But fuck it. She let them smother, embracing the tingling in her throat and stomach, the faint shaking as the camera swung between them. The taxi blasted again. She pulled back.

'I've got to go,' she whispered. She dashed through the rain, bracing herself. She hurled herself into the back of the car, sinking against the seat with a gasp. The taxi pulled off. She looked back, squinting through the rain, blurred and orange under the streetlights, but Seb was gone. She turned back, leaning against the headrest with a sigh. Something rubbed her neck. She slipped her hand down her back and pulled out the tag, still attached to the cardigan. She raised her eyebrows, sniffing at the top. It was new, devoid of the telltale scent of its owner. She lay back, resting her head against the window, bathing in the warmth and comfort of the taxi. Her heart pounded. She buried her head in her hands, blinking back the tears that threatened, and swore.

11

'Fook me, y'never told me your lady was a lady.' Olly's voice greeted Seb as he slipped quietly back into the flat. 'Dead posh, ent she?'

Seb took a bottle of vodka from the freezer.

'And you neglected to tell me she's a MILF. Ah thought she were our age like.' Olly held out his glass. Seb filled it. 'Ahv always wanted to shag an older woman. Ow fook d'you do it?'

Seb shrugged, pouring himself more vodka. He sat down, watching the glass frost in his hand. Olly shook his head.

'Y'dark fooken bastard,' he said, knocking the vodka back in one go.

'You're shaking,' Seb said.

'It's cold,' Olly pointed out. Seb looked at him. 'Ah,' he shrugged with an unconvincing laugh. 'Y'know, it's just, that lad that were shot...y'know.'

'Lads,' Seb corrected quietly. Olly did not hear.

'Y'know, it just...freaks ya out a bit, dunnit?'

Seb sipped his drink. 'I thought you said that sort of thing happened round your way all the time?'

Olly shrugged. 'Well yeah. Sometimes. But y'know...'

'Was it you? Who took the drugs?'

'What? O course not, ah never nicked any drugs ah didn't take, ahm not that fooken stupid.'

'What was Norman blaming you for then?' Seb filled up his glass again. Olly was silent. Seb looked up, catching his eye. Olly looked away. It was all the answer Seb needed. They drank silently. Olly's answer, though Seb had suspected it already, took the edge off the warm buzz that Mrs Carswell's lips had left. A creeping sickness set in instead.

It was a cold night, the vodka colder. They drank quietly, shivering, clinging to what warmth emanated from their flushed cheeks. Seb felt sick, and yet oddly happy. It had been a great night, he thought. And yet there was that, that niggling feeling pressing in the back of his mind, pushing on the base of his skull. He looked at Olly. He was quiet; too quiet. His eyes were glazed and sightless, his mind seeing something other than the chipped surfaces and cold pizza crusts, something far off in the distance of his mind. Seb wondered what he was looking at, sure he would rather not know.

He rose slowly. Olly turned, slipping from his reverie.

'I should go to bed,' Seb said. They were working tomorrow, splitting a shift at the pub. Seb had been thankful of the work at first, but now he dreaded it. Olly nodded. Seb left him to his thoughts, whatever they were, and made his way to bed, though not to sleep.

*

The boy behind the bar looked young, younger than he probably was. He was short and slender, his fingers long, hands quick. He had half an ear on one side, an earring in the other. Seb wondered what had happened to his ear, but knew better than to ask. He sidled behind the bar, nodding.

'You Seb?' The boy said.

Seb nodded.

'Jamal. Table over there needs cleaning.' He motioned towards the corner. Seb took the hint. He went about his work silently, in tune with the dampened atmosphere of the pub. His new colleague, Jamal, was as taciturn as Seb himself. Norman wouldn't like that, surely, Seb thought. He always wanted at least one chatty barman.

Seb moved slowly, his arm still throbbing and sore. He hadn't slept much the night before, the discomfort and thoughts buzzing about his mind keeping him awake. He wore a t-shirt now; the longer top from yesterday had rubbed the bandage protecting his stitches, and though the pub was warm, the cold in the flat had seeped into his bones and his arms were spotted with goosebumps. He concentrated on his work, glad for the distraction. It was just as well he wasn't at the garage today, he thought, his arm was weak and if Clarke found out he hadn't just been in a fight, but stabbed - a glass shattered suddenly. Seb jumped. The men sitting at the bar cheered. Jamal, topping off a pint of Guinness, glanced at him, a bored look on his face.

'Clean that up will ya?' He said in a flat, uninterested voice that complemented his general demeanour. Seb nodded, ducking out of the bar into the back. The smell of beer and stale sweat filled the small hallway between the kitchen and the bar. There was a narrow store cupboard, piled high with brushes and mops that crashed around his head when he opened it. He threw his arms up instinctively to shield his head, buckets and dustpans clattering from the top shelf onto his elbows and the tender, stitched together flesh of his bicep.

'Seb.'

He glanced around. Olly stood in the doorway, pale and drawn, his hoodie pulled up over his head. He looked ill. Seb frowned.

'Seb,' he hissed. 'Seb ah – ah need –'

'What the hell is going on out here?' Jamal materialised in the doorway, arms folded across his chest. 'Clumsy twat.' He shook his head. 'Get in and clean this shit up will ya?'

Seb nodded. He turned back into the bar, his half an ear twitching in a gruesome fashion. Seb turned, but Olly was gone. He gathered up a dustpan and brush, wondering if he'd dreamt Olly up, like he'd dreamt his mother had been in the hospital the other night. If only he'd dreamt up Mrs Carswell. He cleared up the broken glass, his stomach tying itself in knots as he thought of Jessica Carswell. He checked his phone regularly, hoped desperately for her to appear, the way she had the other times and when he didn't hear from her his head spun and swam with possibilities and things that could have happened; her mind could have changed, she could have decided she didn't like him anymore, she could have had an accident, an horrific accident - but no, he couldn't think like that. He dumped the glass into the bin, banging the dustpan hard against it. The shards clattered in, tinkling against the side. He gave the dustpan one last slam and let the lid swing back.

'Ooh, somebody's in a cranky mood.'

Seb started. Jessica grinned at him, her eyes sparkling in the dim light of the pub. He caught his breath, his heart thundering suddenly into his throat, propelled by his stomach.

'Cheer up.' She reached across the bar, squeezing his arm teasingly. 'It might never happen.'

He held his breath, desperately trying to control his blood flow. God, how he wanted her, more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life, ever.

He wanted her. He wanted her. He wanted her there and then, every miniscule, minute inch of her, physically, mentally, emotionally. He wanted to be the reason she got out of bed in the morning, and back into it at night. He wanted to protect her, to keep her safe and warm and happy, to kiss her and hold her and love her and he would ask no more of life than that, ever. And he wanted to tell her. He wanted to whisk her away into the evening and declare everything he'd ever felt, though he knew he never could, for even if there were words for what he felt, he didn't know them. She probably did, she was so educated and intelligent. He bet she knew all sorts of things, like why the moon didn't fall out of the sky and what the words were for the feelings that tore wildly at his chest, with teeth and claws that slashed his stomach and sent his heart pounding and his head spinning worse than drunkenness. But he was just a skinny, uneducated boy with no knowledge of poetry and even less of women, what chance did he have against older, smarter, more educated men, who probably knew all about poetry and art and women and a whole world of things Seb could only imagine?

'Are you working late?' She asked, sliding onto a barstool.

'Ten or eleven,' he shrugged.

'Hmm. That's a shame. Well, I'll have a gin and tonic please. Double.'

He nodded, forcing down the lump in his throat. He scooped ice into a glass, keeping his head down to avoid the eyes of the men at the bar. His hand shook as he poured out the measure, the ice clanking as it leapt about the glass. He turned back, reaching for the spray nozzle. A hand shot out, grasping his arm. He jumped, sloshing the gin onto his fingers.

'A bottle darling,' she said, her voice a velvety purr. 'Not the spray stuff, that's no good.'

He nodded and turned, ducking down to fetch the tonic. The cold that wafted from the fridge was thankfully cool upon his cheeks. He stood up, unscrewing the lid. She smiled at him, her eyes not leaving his as she tipped the water into her drink.

'What happened to your arm?' She asked. He shrugged, knowing he wasn't going to tell her. What would she think of him if she knew he'd gotten not only the slash on his face, but stabbed too?

She shook her head. 'Every time I see you Sebastien, you have some new injury. You must be the most accident prone young man in the country.' She smiled, a thin, rueful smile. He felt shivers down his back, his hand trembling as he reached automatically for another glass to fill Paddy Whyte a pint. He loved the way she said his name, his full name, so playfully stern and in her clear, posh voice that knew just how to pronounce it perfectly. The only people who ever used his full name before were institution people, doctors and nurses and social workers and once or twice a teacher. But they never said it like Mrs Carswell, with her gentle, smooth tones and perfect pronunciation. When Jessica Carswell said it it made his pelvis tingle, his heart thunder, the bottom fall from his stomach.

'Hurry up lad,' Paddy Whyte growled. Seb turned quickly, slamming the pint down on the bar.

'I'm sick,' he said to Jamal. Jamal arched an eyebrow.

'Don't you fucking dare leave me on my own,' he said, but Seb was already pulling on his jacket, wincing as the sleeve slid over his stitches.

'Oi, I'm ringing Norman,' Jamal said, squaring up in front of him. Seb pushed past, knocking the smaller boy aside. He snatched Jessica's arm, pulling her from the bar.

'Wait!' She lifted the gin, knocking back the glass in three long gulps and slipped from the stool, staggering after him.

The day was clear, but Seb pulled up his hood and ducked into the doorway of the flats, pulling Jessica behind him. She tasted fresh and fruity, the trace of gin in her mouth the sweetest taste Seb had ever known. He kissed her hard, as if he could devour her, become part of her, keep her with him forever.

She placed a hand on his chest, pulling back with a gasp. Her face was flushed, her eyes shining in what remained of the day's light.

'Seb,' she gasped. 'You -'

But he didn't let her finish. Her body was soft and satisfying, filling his arms like in his dreams, warm and cushy and curvaceous.

'Seb.' She pulled back again, her palm flat on his chest, holding him at arm's length. 'You mustn't. We -' She paused. He leaned in to kiss her again but she turned her head, glancing up and down the street. He followed her gaze, wondering what she was looking for. She stepped back, extricating herself from his arms.

'I was going to suggest going out for dinner,' she said, her breath still heavy. 'I thought - I thought it might be nice. I didn't think...' She trailed off.

'It...would be nice,' he said. His insides danced, hoping she would take him, that she hadn't changed her mind. She took a deep, steadying breath and looked back at him.

'Come on then,' she said. 'Pete's given me a car, it's over there. But - you mustn't try to kiss me again, OK?'

Seb frowned. He wasn't agreeing to that.

They travelled wordlessly for a while, gentle crooning filling the silence. Seb sat with his hood up, hands buried in his pockets, clasped in fists so tightly his stitches throbbed. He stared straight ahead, oblivious to the world passing before them, so focused was he on his thoughts. Jessica glanced at him and smiled.

'Penny for them?' She said. He looked up, blushing.

'Nothing,' he muttered, straightening his arms so his jumper stretched halfway to his knees. She turned back to the road.

'My decree absolute came through this morning,' she said. 'My marriage is officially over.'

Seb turned back to the windscreen, gazing at the traffic lights at which they were stopped. Wasn't that a good thing? He wondered. Because she didn't sound too happy about it. He wondered if he should say something. But what were you supposed to say? Congratulations?

'So, I should be celebrating, shouldn't I? I shall have to organise a party sometime.' She smiled. 'I always like an excuse for a good party. But tonight,' she reached out, placing a hand on his bicep. 'You and I will have to make our own party, won't we? As no one else is about.'

Seb's heart soared. She squeezed his arm, right on his stitches. He flinched, instinctively pulling away.

'Oh gosh, I'm sorry.' She withdrew hastily, placing her hand back on the gear stick. 'Oh I'm so mindless, I never remember anything. I'm sorry Seb.'

Seb unclenched his fists, releasing the pressure on his arm. His fingers were stiff. He clenched and unclenched them slowly, one finger at a time.

Jessica sniffed. He glanced up. Her cheeks were damp, shining streaks trailing down her face, dark smudges under her eyes. When she realised he was looking at her she laughed, a high, forced laugh.

'Oh look at me,' she said. 'This is supposed to be a happy day, right?' She wiped under her eyes with the side of her palm. 'I'm sorry, I really am.'

They pulled into a car park, slotting neatly in beside a Land Rover. Jessica took her bag from beside Seb's feet and pulled down the overhead mirror, dabbing at her face with tissues. Even with black smudges under her eyes Seb thought she was the prettiest woman he'd ever set eyes on. He watched as she wiped her face and reapplied her make up. He could watch her apply lipstick all day he thought, the deep redness sliding smoothly along her lips, pressed together, pouting, dabbed with tissue. Heavenly.

'Now then. Come on.' She screwed down the lipstick and popped it into her bag, turning back to Seb with a smile. He was relived to see she looked happy now, and not about to cry. He climbed out of the car, wondering if all women were this changeable.

'Come.' She reached out, tucking her arm into his good one. 'Tonight,' she said, rubbing his arm vigorously. 'Is a very special night, and I promise I shan't cry at all.' She smiled. He smiled back. 'Now take that hood off will you?' She reached up, pulling it down. 'That's much better, see? Lovely handsome face like that, shame to hide it under a hood when there's no rain.' She ruffled his hair playfully. He grinned shyly and looked away.

He let her lead, down two streets, or maybe four, he wasn't sure. He was too caught up in pretending to be a gentleman from an old time movie, because that was how she looked, like some beautiful old time movie star.

He couldn't really tell if the restaurant they went to was very posh - he didn't exactly have much to compare it to - but it was very cool and oldy looking, all stone walls and candles and dangling vines and open fires and all the waiters wore old fashioned jumpers and corduroy trousers and didn't look like waiters at all, and they all knew Mrs Carswell and brought her favourite aperitif and asked about her life and flashed their white teeth and eyed her legs and Seb, glancing over him with a mix of curiosity and confusion, too polite to ask exactly who he was.

'You should try the onion soup,' she said, sipping the sweet smelling amber liquid. 'It's divine. I love the food here. Very hearty, old fashioned fare. No frills, just proper food.'

He nodded, staring blankly at the menu. 'What else is...good?' He asked, colouring.

'Mm, you're vegetarian aren't you? I'm not sure, we'll ask James what he recommends when he comes to take the order. I think I'll have the spicy veg soup and the beef and stout pie I think. Oh James, can you recommend a vegetarian main for Seb here? He's not sure what to have.'

The pearly-toothed waiter smiled a simpering, sickening smile Seb didn't like at all.

'Of course,' he nodded. 'Our special today is a vegan option, stuffed aubergine, but I highly recommend our arable pie...it's like shepherd's pie but...with vegetables.'

Seb glanced at Jessica. She smiled, nodding at him. He nodded back. The waiter didn't move.

'Um, yeah I'll - I'll have the - the pie,' he said.

'Excellent,' the waiter purred. When he'd taken their order he slid off, one last smile at Mrs Carswell as he took her menu.

'Toast with me,' she said, holding up her drink. Seb raised his glass, the same amber drink as hers.

'To freedom,' she said. 'A fickle beauty, but a beauty nonetheless.'

She drank. Seb sipped his, savouring the sweet, nutty flavour of the drink.

'Why -' He began, but stopped. Jessica put down her glass, licking her bottom lip.

'Go on,' she said. He shook his head, quickly knocking back the rest of his drink.

'Go on,' she sang. 'You can say anything to me Seb, really.'

He shrugged. 'Well, I was going to ask...why you...got divorced.' He lowered his head, hoping she wasn't going to cry again. The very last thing he wanted to do was make her cry.

'Mmm,' she said slowly. 'Now there's a question.'

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I shouldn't - I shouldn't ask.'

'Nonsense,' she said, waving a hand. 'Curiosity is healthy. It might not always get you far in life, but a lack of it will get you nowhere.' She smiled, a vague, dreamy smile. 'My father always used to say, "don't be afraid of the questions, only the answers hold something to fear." Grumpy old sod that he was.' She laughed. Seb smiled. James approached, carrying their starters. Seb said nothing as he laid them down before them, annoyed at the man's intrusive presence.

'Looks good,' Jessica said, nodding at his. Seb thought it looked like soapy, dirty fat, the fluffy brown stuff that sat on top of the creamy white stuff recalling something he had once seen drooling out of a dying drug addict in their flat when he was younger. But wasn't about to say that of course. He nodded.

'Well.' Jessica dipped a chunky slice of bread into her soup. 'You asked me a question, I'll do my best to answer it. Succinctly though, you hardly want your whole dinner ruined with my life's faults and failings.' She took a spoon of her soup. Seb tucked into his warily. He took a whiff of the foamy black stuff. It didn't smell too bad, he thought.

'But anyway,' Jessica continued, dabbing the corner of her mouth with her napkin. 'Really the marriage was over long before I filed for divorce. We barely spoke to each other for the guts of two years, and then he went off to his mother's old house in Surrey, shacked up with a mutual friend, if you can call them that.' She picked a chilli from her bowl, leaving it down on the plate. Seb watched it, entranced. 'Of course when I sent the divorce petition he came back and we did try to make it work - or at least, I did anyway; nobody gets married planning a divorce, do they? Well, they probably do, come to think of it, but anyway, the seams continued to fall apart and then I met someone else, and of course that didn't please John at all, surprise surprise, those sorts of people can never take it when the situation's reversed, expect you to forgive and forget when it's their indiscretion, but when the shoe's on the other foot...anyway that was a long time ago now, or it feels like it, and here I am at the end of a short and messy marriage and a long and messy divorce, childless and heading towards forty, having dinner in a too-hip restaurant with an orphaned teenager who gets into more fights than Amir Khan.' Her last words were bitter. Seb, who'd been avoiding looking at her throughout her story in case it put her off, looked up. She smiled at him, a sad sort of smile, and raised her wine.

'And sweeter company a woman couldn't ask for either,' she said. Seb blushed. She had to be lying, he thought; he was no sort of company for a woman like Jessica Carswell. But if she was, she could lie forever, lie to him and with him and he would take it all without complaint.

'Why me?' He asked, reaching the white bit of his soup.

'You?' She finished hers, sitting back.

'Tonight,' he said. 'If it's a special night, why...me?' He shrugged.

'Why, don't you think you're special?' She teased. Seb shook his head. She took a large gulp of wine. 'OK. Truth is,' she said, placing the glass back down. 'All my friends are married with kids or in a different country or...well, I don't think I could be alone tonight. It's not a night for being lonely. I need...company. Distraction. So,' she held up her glass again, smiling. 'To you, Sebastien Daly. My distraction.' She drained the glass. Seb watched her throat bob as she swallowed, her jewellery glinting in the firelight. He was definitely, definitely in love.

James took their empty dishes and topped up their glasses. The restaurant was filling now as more people filed in. They were all smart people, though casually or even strangely dressed. They were probably all artists like Jessica, he thought; they all seemed to know her, nodding greetings and once or twice stopping to say hello and ask about her life and work. His whole body tingled every time she introduced him. He could see people wondering what she was doing at dinner with a bruised and scarred teenager and why he was the "subject" for her current work, but they could wonder all they liked, he was here with her and that was all he cared about. He was Jessica Carswell's date for the night; he was.

'There's a band playing around the corner tonight, we should go and check them out,' she said. 'My friend's sleeping with the drummer, but they are very good.'

Seb's heart soared. He nodded enthusiastically, taking the dessert menu from James. He eyed the table next to them, who were halfway through their pudding. His stomach, though full, rumbled at the sight. He'd never had anything like that before. The closest he'd ever gotten were tubs of expensive ice cream nicked from the supermarket, half melted while his chest froze.

'Oh, I think I'm going to pass on pudding.' Jessica put her menu aside. Seb's heart sank.

'Don't look so distraught,' she laughed. 'You can have whatever you like.'

He stared at the menu, the words swimming before his eyes. Another waiter passed, laden with plates oozing chocolate.

'I'll have that,' he said quickly.

'The chocolate cake?' James said.

'I think,' Jessica said, smiling up at the tanned and shiny waiter. 'I shall have a sambucca.'

'Planning to make a night of it?' The waiter joked, taking their menus.

'Well, you only live once.' She winked at him. Seb's gut wrenched.

The chocolate cake was the richest thing Seb had ever eaten. He ploughed valiantly through as much of it as he could until his stomach pleaded for mercy, begged for release, in a state of shock from the amount of food.

'You don't look like you enjoyed that,' Jessica said as he abandoned his efforts to finish.

'It was...very nice,' he said, hoping she didn't think him ungrateful or rude. 'I'm just...full.'

'Very rich isn't it?' She peered at his plate, wrinkling her nose. 'I never eat any of Oliver's puddings. He never knows when to stop. Never knows when to stop eating them either.' She giggled. Seb laughed, though he had no idea who Oliver was or what he didn't stop doing to his puddings.

'Mmm, anyway.' She put aside her shot glass. 'Let's head shall we?'

Seb frowned. It was so warm here, this was perfect, sitting, warm and happy, with her. He could stay here forever.

'Oh I know,' she said, nodding at James. 'We're supposed to sit and drink and coffee and let our food go down and what not, but I feel the pub is calling us, do you not?'

Well, Seb thought, whatever pub was calling them sure wasn't Norman's.

The night, when they hit it, seemed hazy and vague, and though something in Seb's head told him it was cold, he didn't feel it, carrying the heat of the restaurant on his skin, and some other, sweeter heat from within. Jessica slid her arm in his, remembering which was his good one this time, and tucked it up, pulling her closer to him.

'Oooh, it's late,' she said with a shiver. Seb had no idea what time it was, and he couldn't have cared less if he did. The streets buzzed with nightlife, people leaving the restaurants and bars, inebriated and loud, people arriving at them, in much the same fashion. Seb stared at the people in the queue for one nightclub. They were brightly dressed in plastic-looking clothes, with multi coloured hair and jewellery that flashed. When he realised they were staring back he slipped an arm around Jessica's waist, a gesture of ownership and protection.

'Where are we going?' She wondered aloud, staggering a little in his grasp. He drew her round the corner, into the shadow of a doorway. He was about to kiss her when a voice rang out across the road, calling her name. She turned.

'Harry!' She waved with delight. The man, slim and sandy haired, dressed in the height of fashion, strolled across the road, greeting her with a hug and a kiss. Over her shoulder, as his lips landed sloppily on her cheek, he shot Seb a look even the less-than –emotionally-literate youth could read. Seb glared back.

'I thought you were down the west end tonight,' she said when he released her. 'Going on a date with the Streetcar boy?'

'Lucas?' Harry said airly. 'Oh yes, we were out. He's no Marlon Brando but he makes conversation just like him. Mumble mumble mumble snore.' He rolled his eyes. 'I bailed. I was on my way to a party out east ways, you wanna come?'

Jessica hesitated. Harry glanced at Seb, looking as if the boy were a dog turd he had accidentally stepped in.

'I suppose this is the wandering waif you've been playing mummy to?' He said. Seb clenched his jaw.

'Why yes, of course, Seb, this is Harry, one of my oldest friends. And yes, Harry, this is Seb.'

Harry grunted at him, giving him the once over. Seb knew the man didn't like him. The feeling was mutual. He turned back to Jessica.

'So yeah, this party, you on for it? I promise you there will be absolutely no beards, fake glasses, or twee folksy music.' He paused thoughtfully. 'There might be a bit of a 1990s retro vibe thing going on though. You know how that's all the rage next week.'

Jessica grinned. 'I can do 90s,' she said. 'I did the 90s.' She laughed, a tinkling laugh like glasses being clinked. Harry laughed too. Seb did not. She slipped her arm into Harry's, smiling up at him.

'Come on then,' she said. 'Lead the way.' They set off down the street. Seb didn't move. After a few paces Jessica stopped and glanced back.

'Seb,' she called. 'Aren't you coming?'

He shook his head. 'I – I feel sick,' he said. She glanced at Harry. He rolled his eyes. She untangled herself from his arm and walked back towards Seb. Harry folded his arms, watching.

'Sick?' She said with concern. He nodded. She pursed her lips.

'Oh come on, he can make his own way home,' Harry said. Jessica shot him a look. She turned back to Seb.

'You do look a little peaky...'

He nodded. She sighed and took his arm. 'Come on,' she said. 'Let's take you home.'

Harry shook his head. 'Well I'm off to this party,' he said. Jessica flagged down a taxi and told the driver where to go.

'I'm sorry,' she said to Harry as Seb climbed in. 'Next time.'

Harry grunted. Seb returned his hard stare as Jessica climbed into the cab.

'Well,' she said, sliding in next to him. 'Let's go back to mine shall we? A good coffee is what's in order I'd say.'

She slid her arm into his, rubbing it gently. He felt better already.

She led him into the library, fussing over his comfort, fretting about the lack of fire, foraging for a drink. Seb remained silent - he was supposed to be sick after all, he reminded himself - allowing her to fuss and mother him, concerned for his warmth and his appetite.

'I'll make some coffee,' she declared, after returning his new cardigan to keep him warm and getting a modest fire crackling in the grate. She fluttered from the room, her heels clacking on the hard wood floor. Seb gazed up at the bookshelves that lined the walls. He didn't think he'd ever seen so many books in his life. There were all sorts of ones, new ones with shining spines, old ones torn and battered, ones with fancy writing, ones so fat he wondered how a person could hold them, ones so thin you'd surely need a magnifying glass to see them. On one shelf a row of books, colourful and attractive, caught his eye. He stood up to look at them. They were old, he reckoned, though of course he could be wrong. The paper was thin and delicate, black and white pictures on every other page. One had gold all down the inside of it. He ran his finger along the gold, watching it sparkle and dance in the firelight.

'Looking for some bedtime reading?' Jessica entered the room, clutching a tray. Seb jumped, hastily returning the book to the shelf.

'You can look,' she said, placing the tray on the coffee table. 'Take whatever you like.'

She poured out two cups of coffee. Seb watched her rear as she bent over to pick one up, placing a couple of biscuits on the saucer. He took it from her, concentrating very hard on not spilling it.

'What do you like?' She turned to look at the books. Seb blushed.

'Poetry,' he said. She raised her eyebrows.

'Any particular poets?'

He shrugged, inspecting his coffee closely.

'I must say I didn't have you down as a poetry lover Sebastien Daly,' she teased. 'Is there a secret romantic in there somewhere perhaps?'

Seb shrugged, blushing again. He'd better say it now, he thought, before she found out the truth and he felt like a fool yet again.

'I - I don't know much about poetry,' he admitted, avoiding her gaze.

'Well, who does!' She took a sip of her coffee. 'Would you like a bit anyway? Of poetry?'

He shrugged, then nodded. 'I don't know what's good,' he said.

'Well, that's a matter of personal taste I suppose,' she said. 'I mean I can't stand the English romantics, detest them, but the modern and post modern poets I enjoy, the occasional Victorian here and there.'

'Would you - would you read me some?' His stomach flipped at the boldness of such a request. 'Some of your - your favourite?'

'Oh gosh, I don't know. I'd be terribly embarrassed, I hate listening to myself.'

'Please,' he said, looking at her. 'I - I want to hear it in your voice. I - I like your voice. I think it's...' He felt himself flush. He cleared his throat and said hurriedly, 'I think it's beautiful.'

Mrs Carswell blushed, her cheeks turning a deep shade of pink.

'Oh,' she said. 'Oh Seb, that's very...sweet.' She put aside her cup and reached for a large, hardbound book on the shelf. 'I'm sure we could have a read of some I suppose, if you really want.' She flicked through the pages. Seb sat down, sipping his coffee, his insides tingling with excitement.

'OK, I've got one.' She stopped at a page and smoothed it with her hand. 'The Sleeper.'

He didn't care what she read, he thought, as long as he could sit and wallow in the crisp, beautiful clearness of her voice. She settled on the sofa beside him, a seat between them, and began to read. Her voice was like a river, he thought dreamily, clean and clear, tinkling away as it flowed through the words like a fresh, cool stream, pure and delicious. He lay with his head against the back of the sofa, his eyes closed as her voice washed over him, talking of a sleeping lady, or perhaps a dead one, he wasn't sure, but he did know the words sounded amazing and he loved them.

His head drifted. He jerked up with a start, just about saving his coffee. Jessica stopped reading and glanced at him.

'You look wrecked,' he said.

He shook his head. 'No,' he said. 'No, I'm OK. Don't stop.'

She closed the book, putting it to one side. 'Come on.' She rose to her feet. 'Let's get you to bed.'

She took his arm gently and eased him to his feet. He went willingly, the thought of bed now the most ingenious idea he had ever heard. They stumbled up the stairs, Mrs Carswell unstable in her heels and under the weight of a teenage boy and alcohol.

'Here, come on,' she murmured as they limped into the spare room. 'Get your arse into bed silly. And sleep tight.'

She lowered him onto the bed. He sank, clinging on to her neck with all his strength.

'Come on Seb,' she said, reaching up to extricate his hand. 'Time to sleep.'

He pushed himself up, aiming for her lips. She placed a hand on his chest and pushed him down.

'I love you,' he mumbled.

'Seb,' she said. 'Let go of me. Come on.'

He lay down slowly, his eyelids too heavy to keep open.

'Really,' he slurred. 'I really love you. You're -' He yawned as she pulled the covers over him. 'You're amazing.'

'Goodnight Seb,' she said. He closed his eyes, pulling the duvet up to his chin. How sweet he looked sleeping, she thought. So handsome and innocent. She leaned down slowly and planted a kiss on his forehead, brushing a stray strand of hair from his face.

'Sweet dreams,' she murmured, backing quietly out of the room. So handsome, she thought ruefully. And so, so innocent.

12

The place was a mess, and that was saying something. Seb stood, staring at the debris strewn across the floor, over the furniture. Someone had emptied a skip over the place, or so it looked. From inside his bedroom, Emily was screaming. He picked his way across the sitting room, kicking aside empty cans and crisp packets, the torn plastic and beer bottles. The door of his room was ajar. He pushed it, feeling resistance from the other side. He stuck a foot in, kicking aside the bedsheets that blocked the door. The playpen had been moved into his room. Emily sat in the middle of it, red faced and wailing. He gathered her up, lifting her from the duvet that had been folded to serve as a mattress. She squirmed and kicked, so hard he nearly dropped her. He marvelled at the strength of such tiny limbs. She stank. He took a whiff of her nappy and grimaced. She wriggled and screeched, kicking him in the chest. He lowered her to the ground and hauled out the changing bag that had been left in with her. Silently, in contrast to the squalling toddler, he laid out the changing mat and did it the way he'd seen Olly do it before. It was the last nappy.

When he was done he dressed her, struggling to slip her limbs into her clothes, and scooped her into his arms. He bounced her gently, humming. She liked the humming, he'd figured that out the last time she'd been crying. If he held her against his chest and hummed she fell quiet, hiccupping gently, her face leaving patches of damp across his t-shirt.

Still clutching Emily he made his way back through the sitting room, past a shiny, brand new bike in the hall that certainly didn't belong to either him or Olly, and into his mother's room. The covers were a jumble upon the bed, but an unmistakable blond quiff sticking out of the side betrayed its contents.

'Olly,' he said. It didn't move. 'OLLY.'

Olly yawned, pulling the duvet over his head. Seb marched towards the bed, raising a foot to kick the lump of stained sheets and boy. The lump groaned.

'There's no nappies left,' Seb said. 'I used the last one.'

Olly grunted.

'Has she been fed?' He glanced at the floor, taking in the piles of clothes and empty packets of cereal and cigarettes.

'Come on,' he muttered, bouncing Emily.

'Sep,' she hiccupped. He grinned.

He took her to the kitchen, squeezing her into the battered high chair Olly had bought for a fiver at a car boot sale. He hoped there would be food. He had given Olly twenty pounds to buy food for them all yesterday. He hoped he hadn't spent it on cigarettes, or worse, drugs. He opened a couple of cupboards, but they were empty. He was beginning to get angry, ready to storm in and beat the living he-didn't-know-what out of Olly when he spotted the bag of groceries on the draining board. He tore it open. Bread, cereal, milk, frozen chips that were now defrosted, a pizza, likewise. He drew out two jars of baby food, pulverised apple stuff, and a packet of sliced red Leicester.

'Keys!' Emily squealed.

'Yeah, cheese,' Seb said, waving the packet. She screeched with excitement, kicking her legs against the chair. She giggled as he prepared the food, breaking up bread and cheese so she could feed herself.

'Keys,' she informed him, holding up a piece of crumbly cheddar.

Seb smiled. 'What's this?' He said, holding up her cup.

'Drink!' She screamed and reached a pudgy fist towards him.

'There's nothing in it.' Seb stood up. 'I'll put some in it for you.'

'Seb, Seb.' She grasped after him. He grinned.

'Awww man.' Olly tottered into the kitchen, pulling a t-shirt over his head. Seb glanced up. 'Uuugghh, dude.' He flung himself into a chair, running a hand through his hair. It was flat after sleeping on it, a floppy fringe dropping over his forehead. He looked younger with his hair down. He stretched, sticking his legs out under Emily's chair, his t-shirt riding up to reveal a trail of downy hair between his belly button and his shorts.

'Ah mate, you're top,' he yawned, leaning forward to ruffle Emily's hair. 'Cheers for lookin after er. Top lad.' He sat back. 'Did she drink for ya?' He nodded at the cup. 'She drank all by erself yesterday, dint spill a drop.' He welled with pride, grinning at the gurgling toddler. 'That's mah girl.' He pulled a face at her. She screeched.

'All gone!' She declared, banging her plate on the tray. 'All gone!'

'Ah mate,' he sighed. 'Call me a poof, but ah think ahm in love.'

He unstrapped the toddler from her chair, heaving her onto his lap. She clutched the cup, banging it against the table.

'Anyway,' Olly said, bouncing his knees. 'Speakin o love, ow'd you get on last night?'

Seb shrugged.

'Ah jeez, you're gonna be all fooken coy on me again ent ya?' He shook his head. 'Dark fooken orse you are. Ent e Ems?'

'Cat!' She screeched in agreement.

Olly slapped himself on the forehead. 'Ah fooken forgot t'bring your teddy to dry cleaners. Meant to do it yesterday when ah were out. Ah fook.'

'It's OK,' Seb said. Olly shook his head.

'Ow you anyway?' He glanced over Seb's cheek, the awkward way he held his arm.

'Fine,' Seb shrugged. He paused. 'Good,' he added, trying the word out on his tongue.

Olly grinned. 'Bet ya fooken are an all.' He bounced Emily gently, watching her play with the Postman Pat cutlery and cup, chatting away to herself. Olly kissed the back of her head with a sigh.

'What am ah gonna do ey?' He murmured. He sounded genuinely concerned. Seb glanced at him. He looked back at Seb.

'Ah can't fooken stick this,' he said. 'Ah can't.' He clutched Emily tightly. She didn't notice. Seb hesitated.

'Stick...what?'

He looked at the baby, hoping Olly wasn't about to say Emily.

'This. Here. No money, under Norman fooken Trench's watchful fooken eye, jumpin at is beck an fooken call, in is fooken ouse, it stinks, it fooken stinks.' He kicked the table suddenly. Emily squealed with delight and copied him. Seb said nothing.

'E were goin mental yesterday lookin for you,' Olly continued. 'Right fooken mental. E made me coom down an cover for yeh, ad to bring Emily, leave er out wi fooken scum o the earth junkies an whores an argh, ah dunno.' He grimaced.

'I'm sorry,' Seb said. Olly looked at him.

'Oh, don't be fooken sorry,' he sighed. 'Ah weren't tryin t'guilt ya, not the point mate.' He shook his head. 'Ah were ragin at Norman, that's what is. E thinks e's Mr fooken Big Shot, swannin around with is guns an is drugs, thinkin e's fooken Kray twins or summat. Fooken cunt.' He spat the word through his teeth. 'Ah can't be doin wi this, livin off meagre shite me dad gimme, you'd think e'd know ow fooken expensive it is raisin a kid. An it only gets worse. Ahm seventeen. All ah want,' he scowled, 'Is a bitta me own so ah can afford a babysitter an go out now an again. Oh, ah know it's me own fooken fault,' he added bitterly. Emily's dark curls gleamed in his eyes. 'Ah love er,' he said defiantly. 'God knows ah fooken love er more'n me own fooken life itself but take it from me lad, don't fooken do it for twenty years. Ah don't wanna hear you've got any bird up duff till Emily's in uni, ya get me?' He chuckled, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. 'Y'hear me?' He wagged his finger at Seb. 'When you're shaggin round wi that igh class posh bird o yours, remember, don't be a codger, wrap your todger.' He winked and laughed.

'I...' Seb began. He paused. Emily reached towards him, the plastic dinosaur held in her hand. He took it, smiling. 'I'll pay for a babysitter,' he said. He wondered how much they cost.

Olly shook his head. 'Nah mate, save your dosh. God knows ya need it.' He chuckled humourlessly.

'Really,' Seb said with earnest. 'I will.'

Oly cocked an eyebrow at him. 'Seriously?'

Seb nodded.

'Oo fook's gonna do it though? Ettie Trench won't av er, just to spite me.'
'Michael's girlfriend?' Seb suggested.

Olly shifted uncomfortably. 'Seriously mate?' He raised his eyebrows.

Seb shrugged. He thought. 'I suppose...' He said slowly. 'I suppose I could ask...Jessica.'

It was worth a shot, he reasoned. She was bound to know someone. Olly nodded slowly.

'Yeah, ah s'pose,' he said. 'Ah mean ah suppose she's alright. Normal. You don't av taste for fooken nutjobs do ya?' He tilted his head, eyeing Seb. Seb shrugged. 'Not like me dad then,' Olly said, taking a wooden block Emily was chewing on. 'Ah swear, everybody e's shagged as ended up in Rampton. Mind you,' he added, walking the block up Emily's leg. 'Ah s'pose ah can't fooken talk, can ah? Not sure which side I'd rather she got. Er mother's craziness, or er father's taste for it.' He laughed harshly.

Seb stood up. 'I'll call Jessica in a while,' he said. Emily turned, reaching towards him with a whimper.

'Ere, she wants ya.' Olly lifted the toddler towards Seb. 'She's taken a proper likin to you lad.'

Seb stepped back. 'I can't.' He shook his head. Olly looked hurt. 'I'm going to see Norman,' he explained.

Olly's eyes widened. 'No. Seb don't,' he said. 'Don't...draw attention to yourself. Norman's got a lot on is plate at moment, he's got all sorts a shite goin on, pigs were sniffin round ere yesterday, after shootin an all, an e were so fooken mad that you left, fooken scary mad. An we all know what e's capable of. Don't go drawin attention to yourself.'

'I have to go see him,' Seb said.

Olly shook his head. 'You lad, are proper. Fooken. Mental.' Seb thought Olly was probably right. But he had to go.

Seb entered the pub, every sense on high alert. He stole up to the bar, ignoring the eyes of the boys playing pool and the thin faced working girl who'd taken his mother's place. Jamal glanced up under his eyebrows.

'What do you want?' He said. 'I ain't serving you.'

'Where's Norman?' Seb asked. Paddy Whyte coughed.

'Why'd you wanna know?' Jamal demanded, but his eyes had already given Seb the answer. He strode through the bar towards the lounge. He pushed it open, not bothering to knock. The bald man from before sat at a table, flanked by two of his young cronies. He glanced up, his eyes flashing at the sight of Seb.

'What the fuck are you doing?' He demanded. The two boys leapt up.

'Where's Norman?' Seb said.

'None of your fucking business. What the fuck do you think you're doing?'

Seb advanced towards the table, taking in the objects spread out before the man, maps and photographs, scrawled notes in spidery handwriting. He frowned, the contents of the table registering slowly in his mind. He started as the two boys grasped him either side, one of them clamping down on his stitches.

'Get him out of here,' the man said, bored. 'Best not rough him up too much though. Norman doesn't want any trouble.'

'I know that place,' Seb said, nodding at the papers. 'I know -'

'You know nothing,' the man snapped, slapping a notebook onto the table. 'Get him out of here.'

Seb did not struggle. He took his beating silently, careful not to flinch. The boys were careful not to touch his face and he was careful not to care as they spat upon it and set off when their work was done. He limped back to the flat, his head vague and dizzy, clutching his testicles delicately. Olly cast him an uninterested look as he stumbled into the sitting room.

'Told you not to go down,' he said.

Seb collapsed into an armchair, struggling to piece his thoughts together, his mouth thick and gluey. Emily, sitting on the floor, shrieked and threw a fat green block at his feet.

'My balls,' he groaned.

'Oh well,' Olly shrugged with half a smile. 'Maybe you won't be giving Emily a playmate any time soon eh?'

Seb said nothing. He had zoned out when the boys had been pounding him with their feet and fists and he knew there was something he wanted to tell Olly, but he couldn't recall it now. His head felt like cotton wool, thick and blurry. Emily clambered at his shins. He gathered her up, careful to keep her at the further end of his lap.

'So, what's plan for tonight?' Olly stretched. He tucked his arms behind his head, golden hair glinting at the end of his t-shirt sleeves.

'Think women ever pick up rent boys?' He sniggered. 'Reckon we could get away with it. We're pretty enough.'

Seb flicked Emily's nose, her tiny hands snatching at his fingers.

'I dunno,' he shrugged.

Olly blew hard out of his mouth and flung his arms down into his crotch. 'Get the pills an lager in an make a proper Ayia Napa time of it yeah?' He said. Seb shrugged.

'Well, I ad an idea while you were off gettin your bollocks knackered,' he continued, standing up. 'A fooken epic one. You're gonna love it, seriously. But first,' he tickled the back of Emily's neck, 'that babysitter you were on about...'

*

This wasn't an idea Seb loved, or hadn't at first. Even now, after several drinks and what pills Olly had persuaded him to take - even now he didn't know how - his stomach was still flipping and churning, but he couldn't work out if it was nerves, excitement, drugs, or a combination of the three. They stood before a high, graffitied wall, staring up. Olly stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the spray painted bricks.

'An y'reckon there's only that one that side?' He nodded up at the CCTV camera perched on the corner of the wall. Seb nodded. Olly bounced on the balls of his feet, unable to keep still.

'Right then. Ready?'

Seb's stomach twirled and spun as he hunkered at the base of the wall, the grass damp and cold under his palms. Olly stepped onto his back, leaping to grasp the top of the wall. Seb braced his back and knees, pushing upwards. Olly scrambled onto the wall, swaying as he caught his balance. Seb watched as he shot along it, surprisingly balanced and nimble considering everything he'd consumed. He slipped off his coat and flung it over the camera, tying the arms to keep it in place.

'Coom on,' he whispered, leaning down to grasp Seb's hand. Seb jumped, catching the top of the wall with his other hand, his feet slipping on the silver and black writing. He swung his leg over and landed, sitting side by side with Olly at the top of the wall.

'Ready?' Olly said. Seb nodded. 'On three - one - two - go!'

They jumped, hitting the concrete below with two heavy thuds. Olly stole through the yard, giggling. Seb followed, heart thundering under his t-shirt.

'This,' Olly whispered as he jimmied the lock. 'Is one o my special skills. That an cunnilingus.' He stopped, collapsing against the door in a fit of giggles. Seb hopped from foot to foot, laughing too, though he wasn't quite sure what at. Olly eventually recovered, cracking the lock with a final jerky manoeuvre. Seb kept lookout as he stole in, re-emerging five long minutes later clutching two sets of keys.

'Ta da!' He cried, dangling them before Seb's face. 'These right ones yeah?'

Seb took a set, weighing them up and down in his hand. He nodded.

Olly whooped. 'Yeah! Let's rock 'n' roll baby.'

The bike was solid and firm between Seb's thighs. It purred and roared between his knees, the wind whipping away their breath as they tore through dark and dreary streets, the world about them a blur of grey and orange. Seb's heart thundered, his whole body thrilling. Olly clung behind him, his whoops and cheers whipped away as they flew, taking the bends so sharply he could almost smell the chewing gum and cigarettes of the pavement.

'Ah wanna go!' Olly roared in his ear. 'Coom on Seb, lemme go!'

Seb urged the bike on, marvelling at the difference his own work had made to her, even with two of them on it.

'Stop!' Olly screamed suddenly. His voice screeched into Seb's ear, piercing through the roar of the engine to his brain.

'Pull over, pull over!'

Seb pressed the brakes gently, surprised by his own clarity. As they slowed he glanced around, his mouth achingly dry.

'What - why -'

Olly jumped off the bike, fixing his top. 'Garage,' he said, pointing towards a glowing forecourt several metres away. 'Drinks!' He yelled, bounding towards it. 'Speeeeeeed drinks!'

Seb climbed off the bike, cursing him. He'd thought it was the police. His heart pounded, his entire torso throbbing with the power of it, in his chest, his throat, behind his eyes and ears. Even his nose seemed to throb. He walked in circles around the bike, trying to calm it down.

'My heart is on my tongue,' he told Olly as he returned, brandishing large cans of menacing looking energy drinks. Olly laughed.

'Fooken would be wi that drivin. Drink.' He passed Seb a can. Seb opened it, feeling the liquid slosh back and forth inside him as his body vibrated with his heartbeat. Olly gulped his down in one and tossed it away, leaping onto the bike with a shriek.

'Girls!' He bawled, as if Seb were the other side of the street. 'What we need is girls!' He bounced agitatedly on the bike. 'Let's go find giiiirrrrllllsss.'

'I'm going to puke my heart,' Seb said, his head moving slowly away from his body.

'No you're not. But there's a nasty big bug on your ear.'

Seb swatted at his ear, knocking his head right off his shoulders. It tolled down the street, stopping at the foot of a streetlight. Olly hooted with laughter.

'Mon t'fook! Get on! Ahm gonna find us some women for fook's sake!'

Seb shook his head, feeling it spring back on to his shoulders. He straddled the bike behind Olly, slipping his arms about the boy's waist. Olly hollered like an Indian from an old cowboy movie and revved the engine of the bike. Seb felt a flash of concern shoot through him - Olly's ability to handle the bike, to drive it at all - but his heart, which was now thumping painfully in his stomach, pushed the flash aside. Olly had no problem with the bike though, revving it gently under his thighs. He pulled out and set off, his speed slower, steering clunkier than Seb's, but the younger boy felt slightly relieved. He drank in the air, hoping it would settle his heart and stomach. He took in the world cruising by around them, the cars they zipped by - Olly's driving was not fluid enough to slalom between them like Seb craved to do - the houses, the shops and people, the streetlights overhead flash flash flash as they drifted below them.

'I'm going to puke,' Seb said suddenly.

'What?' Olly said over his shoulder.

'I'm going to puke!'

Olly slammed on the brakes, sending Seb crashing into his back. Seb felt his insides rush towards his throat.

'Well go puke then!' Olly urged. 'Don't fooken do it on me!'

Seb stumbled from the bike, staggering across the pavement. He snatched railings as he tottered sideways into them, aiming the pale coloured liquid away from his shoes. Gradually, as he heaved and spewed he felt his heart rate slow, panting as if he'd just run several miles. Olly sat on the bike, bouncing impatiently.

'Coom ooooon,' he said. 'Coom on, coom on, coom on, coom on.'

Seb walked slowly back towards the bike. Olly slid back along the seat, waving at the handlebars.

'You can drive,' he said. 'Not too fast though, ahm gonna keep an eye out for women.'

Seb climbed onto the bike, scratching at the ear Olly had said there was a bug on. He started the bike back up, feeling a rush of warmth through him. He couldn't decide if it was the engine, or something else.

He began to relax, settling into the flow and rhythm of the bike. It felt like an extension of himself, as if his legs gradually moulded into metal, his body humming with the purr of power and beauty. The handling was light and fluid, as if she responded not to his touch, but his thoughts. He would do something about the handlebars though, he thought, sailing around a leafy street corner towards an old church. But other than that, he was very happy with his work. Yes, happy.

Seb sped up. The church raced towards them, the lit up crucifixion scene zipping past in a blur of blue and red. Underneath them, the road rose in a steep curve. Seb clung to the handlebars, Olly's arms digging into his ribs. Below them the city glittered, lights sparkling in waves like the sea. Seb revved the engine, relishing the sound and feel, the power surging between his legs. Everything was alright here, he thought. This was it. This was what life was about.

Suddenly, the world flashed blue about them, echoing with wails.

'Oooh fook,' Olly whispered. 'Ooh fooken fook.'

Seb glanced in the mirror. Behind them, a police car flashed its lights and siren.

'Speed up!' Olly crowed. 'Igh speed chase!'

But Seb slowed, pulling over.

'What are you doin?' Olly cried. Seb watched the police car pull in behind them. The passenger door opened.

'Drive, now!' Olly urged. 'Afore the cop cooms!'

But the cop was already coming.

'Right lads,' the copper said, approaching them. 'Let's see those licences.'

'I av a licence,' Olly said. 'Licence to kill!'

He descended into hysterical giggles, pressing his face into Seb's back as he laughed. The policeman did not look impressed. Seb shrugged and grinned.

'Licence,' he repeated. Seb smiled blankly at him.

'I – I av mine!' Olly fumbled for the pink in his pocket. The policeman took it, glancing over it and back at Olly.

'This is a provisional,' he said. 'And you weren't driving.' He turned to Seb. 'Do you have a licence? Or any form of ID?'

Seb shook his head, scratching his ear irritably.

'Right, can you get off the bike please?' The cop reached for his pocket. 'Jeff,' he called to the car behind him. 'Jeff, come over here mate.'

Jeff got out of the car, approaching his partner with steps lighter than his vast bulk.

'Ooh look,' Olly whispered to Seb in a very loud, very audible whisper. 'Ah think it's incredible ulk...in the pig's stomach!' He descended into sniggers again. Seb laughed too, still pulling at his ear.

'FIA,' the first policeman said.

'Right,' Jeff said, snatching Olly by the shoulder. 'Off the bike you two.'

Olly tried to resist, babbling about manhandling and mistreatment. Seb stumbled from the bike, grabbing the first officer to break his fall. The officer snatched him back, steadying him on his feet.

'Right,' the officer said calmly. 'Both of you. We stopped you for driving without helmets, and suspicion this bike is stolen, but now we have reason to believe you are driving under the influence. I want you to do a little test for me.'

'Don't do it Seb,' Olly slurred. 'E's a liar, e just wants to boss you round, enjoy is power.'

'Shut up you,' PC Jeff said sharply.

'You can't talk to me like that,' Olly said. 'Fat bastard.'

The copper lashed out, striking Olly across the face. The boy stumbled back into the bike, clutching his cheek.

'You don't know oo my dad is,' he said. 'Ah'll fooken tell me dad. E'll av your legs.'

'I don't care if your father's Prince fucking Charles,' Jeff snarled. 'Shut the fuck up.'

Olly rubbed his cheek, but shut up.

'Right, tilt your head back, close your eyes and count to thirty,' the first cop said to Seb. Seb automatically followed his orders, thinking how nice it felt to close his eyes, like he was floating away on clouds to heaven.

'Right, now I need you to walk, nine steps, heel to toe, counting each one out loud, turn around and do it back to me please,' the same officer said.

Seb stared at him, hearing only his blood thundering in his ears.

'Nine steps, heel to toe, counting each one out loud, turn around and do it back to me,' the PC repeated.

Seb stepped forward, concentrating very hard on his feet, though they refused to go in any sort of order and he stumbled back into the first officer. The first copper glanced at Jeff. Olly shrieked with laughter.

'One more,' Jeff grunted.

'Do we need to see anymore?' The first asked.

'Close your eyes and touch your nose,' Jeff commanded. 'You too,' he barked at Olly.

'Ahm not doin fooken nothin,' Olly said stubbornly. Seb closed his eyes, searching for his nose with his right hand.

'It's gone,' he gasped, opening his eyes. 'I can see it but – it's gone.'

'It's a ghost!' Olly shrieked gleefully. 'A ghost nose!'

'Right, that's it, you're under arrest.' Jeff reached for the cuffs on his belt.

'What, me?' Olly cried. 'What fook are you arrestin me for?'

'I'm arresting him for driving without a licence,' the officer said, snatching Seb's arm. 'And dangerous driving, driving without insurance, and driving under the influence.' He snapped the cuffs shut, nodding at his partner. The first officer fumbled quickly with his own cuffs, extending them towards Jeff. Jeff grabbed Olly's arm. Olly tried to struggle but the police officer was bigger and much, much stronger.

'I'm arresting you both,' he grunted, wrestling Olly face down onto the seat of the bike. 'For suspicion of theft.'

Olly let out a yell of pain.

'It's not theft,' Seb said stupidly. 'What did I thieve?'

'We believe this is a bike that was reported stolen about an hour ago,' the first policeman said.

'It's not the bike,' Seb said. 'The bike is mine.'

The first officer began to recite their rights. Olly continued to struggle and yell. 'Well, you can prove that when we get you to the station and check it out, can't you?' Jeff sneered, hauling Olly away from the bike. 'Walsh, shut the fuck up and ring for them to come and get the bike will ya?'

Olly was bundled roughly into the back of the car. Seb followed, not quite sure what he made of the whole thing. It was like a film, he thought, like he was sitting on the couch watching a movie.

'I didn't steal the bike,' he said dreamily as the first officer radioed for back up or some such. 'She's mine. I made her. She's my baby, like Emily.'

'Yeah, Emily!' Olly interjected. 'Yeah, you can't do this to me, ahv done nowt wrong, you're gonna deprive a poor child of er father just because o your prejudice towards carefree young men ya fat, poncy, southern fook.'

That was it for PC Jeff. The first officer said nothing as he dragged Olly from the car, flinging him face down into the ground. Seb shouted as the constable laid into Olly, his heavy boots raining down upon the boy, but he could do nothing but watch, handcuffed and locked inside the car.

When he was done, the officer hauled Olly from the ground and shoved him in beside Seb. His face was covered in dirt and blood, his hair a wild mess upon his head.

'Well I can't wait to get you two little shits down the station and search you,' Jeff said with an air of satisfaction. 'See what else we can pin on you eh?'

'Ah want a lawyer,' Olly said. Flecks of blood and spit flew from his mouth, spraying his jeans. Jeff laughed. The first officer, Walsh, sat in behind the steering wheel.

'We'll get you down the station and you can have parents and lawyers and whatever you like,' he said. 'But right now you'd do best to shut up.'

'Wait'll me dad ears about this,' Olly mumbled. 'E'll av you, e'll fooken av you, one way or tother.'

Seb watched in horror as his bike was towed away, the large, powerful machine looking redundant and helpless as it was taken off.

'My bike,' he mumbled. 'My bike, she's – my bike.'

Olly sat beside him, ranting, though very little of it made any sense. Seb could only think of the bike, repeating it over and over to himself as they drove.

'Oliver Francis Bowman, 28th o January 1994, no. Fixed. Abode,' Olly proclaimed as they were hustled into the station. The custody sergeant behind the desk looked up under her fringe with a sigh. The officer next to her didn't even glance up from his laptop.

'What have we got then?' The sergeant sighed, pulling out a clipboard.

'Tell em nothing Seb,' Olly said. 'No comment, everything.'

'Theft, dangerous driving, DUI, no licences and we have reason to believe they're in position of illegal substances,' Jeff said, shoving Olly into the desk.

'We didn't steal anything,' Seb said.

'Oh yeah? Funny how you were found riding a bike that's been reported stolen after a break in then, ain't it?'

Olly grinned at the sergeant over the desk. 'Quiet night in ere then?' He said.

She gave him a withering look. 'Yeah. Lucky for you two.'

'Ah tell ya what, ah could liven it oop for ya,' he winked. Jeff shoved him harder into the desk.

'Shut your mouth you,' he snapped. 'Watch what you fucking say.'

'Oh I will,' Olly assured him, but he fell quiet.

Seb watched, the same film-like feeling as the sergeant filled out a form with their names and addresses, dates of birth and contact numbers for adults and searched their pockets and jackets. Olly flatly lied, giving a phone number for a parent that Seb was fairly sure was fake, or a friend who would be willing to cover. Seb wasn't savvy or sober enough to do the same, nor could he care to. When asked to provide a contact number for a parent or guardian he was about to tell them he had neither when Olly butted in.

'Your ant,' he said. 'One in posh ouse. Ow fooken addlepated are yeh?'

Seb thought hard about what Olly was saying.

'The ot one,' Olly said, kicking him so hard he winced. The officer, Jeff, raised his eyebrows.

'Jessica,' Seb gasped, realising what Olly was hinting at. Jessica had agreed to look after Emily for the night, so the boys could go and have some fun. Seb hadn't even wanted her to look after Emily, he'd just thought she might know someone suitable, but she had said she would take care of the child of herself. It was a big favour, he'd thought, but this was even bigger.

Another officer entered reception.

'The assault guy is demanding food and the duty,' he said, handing a pile of papers to the sergeant. 'And the bike checks out as well, reported stolen after a break in about two hours ago. Registered to the garage, but no insurance.'

The sergeant sighed. 'I offered that bastard a bloody meal half an hour ago,' she said, shaking her head. 'He can go without.' She put aside her pen. She was really rather pretty, Seb thought. 'Have you contacted the garage?' She asked the officer.

'The owner is on his way.'

Seb's heart plummeted. The sergeant got to her feet.

'Check out arse in the uniform,' Olly whispered to Seb. Jeff clocked him on the back of the head, knocking Olly's head into Seb's.

'Your parents - aunt, will be contacted,' the sergeant said. 'When there is an appropriate adult present you'll be searched and the nurse will be down to take blood samples. You'll have fingerprints and photographs taken, with or without your consent. PC Jones here will inform you of your rights and the rest of the procedure while you wait. Do remember you don't have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. If you want anything to drink, tell me now.'

'A whisky'd be fooken great love,' Olly said.

The sergeant ignored him. 'Cavill,' she said to PC Jeff. 'We'll have a chat in my office. No bloody room in this station since Northall closed,' she muttered, heading out of the door. Jeff gave Olly one last slap across the head before following her.

'Police brutality,' Olly said, rubbing the back of his head. 'Ahm gonna make a complaint once ahm out.' He looked at PC Jones, a large, muscular man with a quiff Olly would have been proud of. 'An what fook do we do now, Elvis?' He slurred.

'Shut up, listen to what I have to say, and wait,' PC Jones replied calmly.

That sounded good, Seb thought, scratching at his ear again. Shutting up would be very, very good. Then he remembered what PC Jones had said. Peter Clarke was on his way. His stomach heaved and flipped.

It was the longest wait of Seb's life. Olly's swagger faded with the effects of the drugs, replaced by reality. Seb listened through the wall that separated their cells as Olly emptied the contents of his stomach. He pulled harder at his ear and squirmed on the bed, unable to keep still. The codes of practice sheet he had been given made no sense to him and he tore it into neat, methodical shreds. The cell was filthy, the blocked toilet wafting its aroma about the room. Graffiti covered the walls, accessorized with wads of toilet paper like papier maiche. Olly groaned and gurgled and called his name. Seb did not respond.

Peter Clarke's voice could be heard miles away. Seb felt his stomach flip. He could hear the sergeant remonstrating with Clarke, protesting and threatening, but Peter Clarke was on a mission.

'Where the fuck are they?' His voice roared down the corridor. 'I fucking know who it was, I'm nearly sure, where the fuck are they?'

'Sir,' the exasperated sergeant said. 'Please, this is completely unnec-'

'Where are the boys? Where's the bike? You can't scrap it, it belongs to me, to my garage. What did they do with it?'

Seb stood up. Clarke's voice echoed against the door, the sergeant's rebounding with it. He peered out, squinting down the long corridor of whiteness and blue doors. It looked like the end of the world, he thought, his mind hazy and vague. And at the end of that world Peter Clarke stood, gesticulating at the front desk.

Seb heard his voice calling Clarke's name. Beside him, Olly yelled. Clarke turned, gaping as he tried to locate the sound of the voices. His eyes landed on Seb's cell.

'Seb! What are you doing here?' He said in surprise. Seb scratched agitatedly at his ear. 'What – I mean – oh no.' Realisation dawned upon the garage owner's face. 'No, you fucking didn't. Not you. No.'

'I did it,' Seb said.

Clarke glanced between the boy and the sergeant. She pursed her lips and looked away, shuffling papers into order. PC Jones stepped out from behind the desk.

'I thought – I thought it was the twins,' Clarke gaped. 'I thought – I mean they would know the cameras and - no. This is absurd. You – no.'

Olly kicked at the door of the adjacent cell.

'I did it too,' he declared. 'It were my idea.'

PC Jones tensed. Clarke's face turned slowly from shock to anger.

'And who the fuck are you?' He demanded.

Even from inside his cell Seb could picture Olly drawing himself to his full, if not particularly imposing height, folding his arms across his chest.

'Frankie Bowman's kid,' he said defiantly.

Clarke's jaw slackened. He looked back at Seb.

'You – what the –' He looked at Olly, taking in the older boy.

'Please come with me sir,' the sergeant said.

'I did it,' Seb repeated, pulling at his ear. 'I did it.'

'I did it too,' Olly shouted. 'E weren't alone, it were all my idea.'

Clarke glared at them, his eyes narrow slits. 'Don't even fucking think about coming back to work,' Clarke yelled. 'I'm done with you Seb. Done. Don't even think about coming back.'

Seb twisted his ear as hard as he could. 'No,' he protested. 'No, don't, I –'

'You're fired,' Clarke shouted. 'Fucking fired!'

'Sir,' the sergeant said, exasperated. 'Please come with me.'

Beside him, Olly yelled.

Clarke followed the sergeant, disappearing from view. Seb sank slowly onto the bed, wishing his brain didn't feel so fuzzy and slow.

'I'm fired,' he mumbled, the words making sense in his mouth, but not quite in his brain. 'I'm fired.'

'Seb!' Olly shouted. 'Ah thought – ah thought when ah said it were my idea – ah thought...' He trailed off.

'I'm fired,' Seb muttered, pulling harder at his ear. 'I'm fired I'm fired I'm fired I'm fired.'

'Oh god,' Olly said. 'Oh god ahm – ahm so sorry Seb, ah – ah never thought...maybe...maybe e just said it, an when e thinks about it e'll change is mind, maybe – maybe – ah fook.'

But Seb wasn't listening to Olly. He was lost in his thoughts, the station fading into nothing around him, Peter Clarke's words circling his head like a bird, over and over, cawing so loudly he was deafened, and all he could think, all he could say, was –

'I'm fired. I'm fired.'

13

'I cannot, cannot believe this.'

Jessica Carswell's voice was sharp and incredulous, an avalanche of icy cold thundering down upon Seb's head as he sat, head bowed, his stomach churning with sickness. Olly sat beside him, similarly hangdog, hands clasped between his knees.

'What the fuck were you thinking? Dangerous driving? Driving under the influence? Possession of drugs? Breaking and entering? Theft?'

Seb shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

'You are so fucking lucky Peter Clarke isn't going to press charges. You have enough on your plates without theft and burglary. I don't even want to know what you have to say for yourselves. I thought you had more sense than this Sebastien, a truckload more bloody sense. And as for you –' Olly's face blazed as she rounded on him. 'You have a child. I would have thought that of all things would knock some sense into somebody, if you want to keep her at least.'

Olly swallowed. He said nothing.

'And me!' She continued. 'I feel complicit in all this, agreeing to look after the baby. I cannot believe you would do such a thing, Seb. Betray my trust in such a fashion. I am so, so disappointed in you. I can only imagine what Pete must feel, betraying him as well. You might think it's harsh Seb, but it's the least he could do, one couldn't expect him to do any less, I mean what you did...'

Her torrent of words continued, but Seb could not listen to anymore. This had just turned into the worst night of his life and Jessica's disappointment compounded it all. Disappointment. Her anger he could take, her upset he could understand. Her disappointment though, cut him to the bone. It was his own fault, he knew, which made it all the worse. He had, as she said, betrayed her trust, and that, more than losing his bike, more than the points, more than the possibility of fines, a criminal record, court, more, even, than the loss of his job, that weighed on him heavier than all of the other results together.

The night was old now, and the effects of the drugs had long worn off, leaving the boys with the full horror of the consequences staring them in the face. Seb felt ill, his stomach sore and queasy, his body exhausted. His mind, too, felt sluggish, but it was sharp enough to realise the full extent of what he had done, and make his heart and stomach sink further. What had happened after Clarke's arrival was a bit of a blur, though he remembered it had been cold, and there was tea, the greatest cup of tea Seb had ever had in his life. He had said very little but Olly, despite all his advice of no comment, had poured his heart out to the more sympathetic of the PCs. He could remember everything after Jessica Carswell arrived though, Peter Clarke's raised voice and angry words, Olly sobbing in the corner. The list of offences being read to him as Jessica sat one side of him, a solicitor friend she had brought on the other, her face deathly pale, Emily clutched tightly in her arms. She had said very little to the boys in the station, beyond telling them to get in the taxi. She had spoken in another room to Clarke and the police as Seb slumped in a chair, Olly vomiting loudly in the bathroom. She had been silent all the way home, speaking only to order Seb to make her a coffee as they arrived and she tucked Emily back into bed. It was not until the baby was settled again and Jessica had knocked back the coffee that she had set upon them with her horrified, incredulous rant. The boys sat, heads hung, too tired to respond, knowing they had no response as it was.

Seb remembered his envy at kids being told off by parents when he was younger. He didn't really envy them now, though Jessica wasn't his mother, so he reckoned this must be even worse. At least you could be angry back at your parents, he thought, tell them to fuck off, blame it on them, shout back at them, however in the wrong you were. You couldn't do that to the woman you loved, could you? Not when she was so right, and you were so very, very wrong.

She stopped eventually, rubbing her forehead with a sigh.

'Anyway.' She shook her head. 'You'll get your punishment. There are beds made up upstairs. Seb, you can go into the room you were in before. Olly, there's a bed made up on the top of the stairs to the right, where Emily is. You'd better go and get some sleep, god knows we've all had a bloody long night.'

The boys rose slowly. Olly swayed a little, tired and still feeling sick. Seb followed him to the door of the sitting room. Olly continued up the stairs, clinging to the banisters for dear life, but Seb stopped, turning back to the room. Jessica was pouring herself a glass of something sweet smelling and amber from the drinks cabinet. She turned, starting slightly as the sight of him hovering in the doorway. Her face turned from startled to annoyed.

'Not now Seb,' she said. 'I don't want to know.'

'I'm sorry,' he said quietly.

'I should bloody well say you are. Now excuse me please, I'm going to bed. You've disturbed my sleep quite enough tonight.'

She tried to push past, but Seb did not move.

'Seb,' she said, her voice shrill with annoyance. 'Move.'

'I need to tell –'

She shoved past him, catching him off guard. He stumbled back, surprised by her strength.

'I don't want to hear it right now,' she called, disappearing up the stairs. 'Go to bed.'

But Seb didn't go to bed. He retuned to the sitting room, curling up on the sofa in the bay window, thinking. He could make it up to her, he knew. There was a way. But could he take that risk? Because it was a risk. He risked getting into even more trouble with the law, with people worse than the law, with Jessica herself. But she was worth taking a risk for, he knew that. She was worth anything, everything.

He gazed around the room, taking in the art, the sculptures and paintings, the photographs and odd looking things he had no idea of, but assumed they must be worth something, a lot no doubt. He pulled his hood up, his brain beginning to shake off the sluggishness, sharper pictures and thoughts starting to form in his mind. His ear was sore and raw from where he had pulled and rubbed at it all night. He stroked it gently, wincing. He would do it, he thought, he would chance it. The risks were high, stupidly high perhaps, especially if he didn't tell, but the rewards, the possible rewards, were more than he could even dare to let himself think about. She was worth it, he thought. She was worth any risk on earth.

*

'I want you to get me a gun.'

The sun blazed down, a cold, bright winter's day. The news that morning had warned of the possibility of snow, but looking at the sky now Seb couldn't see how it would, so clear and cloudless was it. They walked, bundled up in borrowed scarves and gloves, Emily gurgling happily from the borrowed pram.

'Oh do you now?' Olly looked at him from under the peak of someone else's cricket cap. 'An what, pray tell, would you want one o them for?'

Seb shrugged.

Olly snorted. 'An why fook would you ask me?'

Seb watched a man throw a stick for a large black Labrador, almost knocking over two young children as he hared after it.

'Where fook d'you think ahd get a gun?'

The children cried, an unfeasibly glamorous woman attempting to soothe them as the man apologised. The dog sat, wagging its tail and panting, patiently waiting for the man to throw the stick again.

'You sold the dud gear, didn't you?' Seb watched the scene before them. Olly stopped.

'What fook's that supposed to mean?' He demanded.

Seb shrugged. Olly sighed, turning back to the pram.

'Ah never took any,' he said, as if that made a difference. 'Ah were just passin it on for someone. Dirty fooken shite.'

Seb said nothing.

'This ent America y'know. Guns ent cheap.'

They fell silent as a scantily clad jogger passed them. Seb shivered at the sight of him.

'How much?' He said.

Olly shrugged. 'Av to see.' He paused. 'Y'swear it won't be loaded in ome?' Seb nodded. 'I swear.'

Olly nodded. 'Well,' he said. 'Ah'll see what ah can do. Put feelers out an like. Can't promise you owt. An you won't be re-enacting any call o duty with it, it won't exactly be an M1 or such like, ya get me?'

Seb nodded. They walked in silence, the wheels of the pram squeaking as they pushed on up the hill. Seb tried not to think about the night before, the loss of his bike, of his job. What he was going to do now, where he was going to get money from. If he went to social services, they were sure to put him in a home now. He couldn't do that. Not now, not again.

'You were in bed on your own last night,' Olly said, looking sideways at Seb with a teasing smile. He seemed totally unperturbed by the previous night's events, though after emptying his pockets of the remnants of the speed the boys had taken, and a not insignificant quantity of MDMA for the custody sergeant, he was booked for possession of restricted substances or something like that, Seb couldn't quite remember the phrase Olly had used, but as Clarke had said he would not press charges against them, that left Seb in a slightly better position in the eyes of the law than Olly. But then he seemed fairly sure his father would get them off all charges, so that would explain his lighter hearted demeanour. He hadn't just lost his job, after all, the one thing that kept him independent and busy, away from the gangs and Norman.

'No lovin for ya then? In dog ouse are ya?'

Seb shrugged. Jessica was mad at him. He could understand why, but it didn't make him feel any better.

'She won't stay vexed wi ya long,' Olly said sagely. 'Just apologise an keep tellin er ow amazin she is. That's what ahd do any road. She's probably stressed too, wi that big exhibition coomin up that she were bangin on about last night. Could be interestin y'know, we should go to it. She might av some ot cougar friends an all.'

He grinned and winked.

'I need that gun soon,' Seb said.

'Jeez, eager fooken beaver you are, ent ya? Ahv told ya ah'll see what ah can do. Ah'll start askin tonight if you're so fooken desperate.'

Seb nodded. He was.

'She's asleep,' Olly said after one more wordless turn about the park. 'Coom on, let's go back. It's fooken freezin.'

They headed back towards the house, letting themselves in with the key Jessica had given them for the day. Seb helped Olly lift the pram up the steps, trying their best not to wake Emily. They left the sleeping baby in the sitting room and made their way into the kitchen. Jessica sat, head bowed over large sheets spread across the table. She glanced up as the boys entered.

'Ready to go home yet?' She asked, rising from her chair. 'I have people coming over later for work. And you need to go home.'

Seb glanced at Olly. He didn't want to go home. He never wanted to go home ever again.

'Emily's asleep,' Olly mumbled.

Jessica retrieved a mug from the cupboard, dropping a teabag into it. 'Fine,' she said. 'But as soon as she's awake you have to go.'

Olly dropped his eyes, avoiding Seb's. 'Ah'll ah - ah'll go check on er,' he said. Seb shot him a look but Olly ran into the hall, pulling the door behind him. Seb sat down slowly in a chair, pulling his hood over his head.

'He looks like he's paying for last night,' Jessica said, pouring water into the mug. 'I hope you are too.'

Seb glanced at her, wondering what she meant. All he could see was her bottom, round and perfect in her tight skinny jeans. She turned around. He looked away quickly. She leaned across him from behind, placing her mug on the table. Seb tensed, the heat of her body bearing down on the back of his head, the scent of her perfume filling his nose. She grasped the back of his chair, leaning down so her lips were level with his ear, her hair brushing the top of his head.

'Seb,' she said, her voice an angry whisper, and yet somehow sad. 'You know that if you ever, ever do anything like that again, you will go to jail for a very long time? You're an easy target for them Sebastien. I don't doubt Olly's father will get you off this time, I certainly don't. But next time, they will get you.'

Seb held his breath, a familiar tightness in his trousers. She pushed his hood down suddenly, pressing her lips to the top of his head. He froze. He loved her, he was sure of it. She sighed, resting her forehead on the crown of his skull. She released her grip on the chair, pressing her hand gently on the back of his neck. Seb felt the hairs there tingle and rise, shooting down his spine to his crotch. He spun around, catching her lips with his. She started, as if to pull away, but Seb grabbed her hand, clinging onto it with a desperation that seemed to fill his whole body. She hesitated. Suddenly, so suddenly it startled even Seb, she kissed him back.

'Woooaaahhh.'

Jessica leapt back, gasping. Olly stepped backwards, holding his hands up.

'Ah'll ah - ah'll leave you two in peace shall ah?' He said, backing out of the room.

Jessica raised a hand to her forehead, her breath short and heavy. Seb reached for the hand she had yanked from his. She pulled away, wiping her palms on her jeans.

'Olly,' she called, her voice thin and strained. There was a loud creak as Olly sidled back in, peaking around the door.

'How is Emily?'

Olly's shoulders relaxed. 'Well, she's alive, so ahd say she's not doin too badly,' he replied.

Jessica nodded. 'Well, gather up your stuff. You have to go.'

'Jess -' Seb began, but she cut him off.

'No Seb,' she said sternly. 'I have a lot to do. I have people coming over and - and I'm - look, you've got to go. Olly get your stuff. Seb, go and get in the car.'

Seb stood up slowly. She turned, her drink forgotten on the table, and headed towards the door. Olly made a face at him as he she passed, jerking his head and mouthing something Seb couldn't make out. He passed Olly, shaking off the older boy's hand as he headed outside. He slid into the passenger's seat, looking at Jessica. She pulled down the visor, checking her make up in the mirror. Seb looked away, pulling his sleeves over his hands.

The journey home was as quiet as the night before. Seb hoped nobody was looking or would notice him as they pulled up outside the pub. The last thing he needed now was Norman's wrath. He opened the car door. Jessica reached for his hand. He stopped.

'Be careful,' she said softly. 'Please Seb, be careful.'

He nodded. She gave his hand a squeeze.

'OK,' he said, but in his head, all he saw was the glittering barrel of a gun. His throat tightened. 'I will.'

He turned and followed Olly into the flat, helping manoeuvre the pram up the stairs. They stopped at the top, the dim light blocking Olly's view as he dug in his pocket for a key. But he didn't need it.

The door of the flat was wide open, chaos visible behind it. Seb pushed past him, abandoning the pram. He marched into the flat, taking in the sight before them. The sitting room was upside down, his mother's photographs and flowers, the boys' clothes and shoes scattered across the floor. The statuette of the virgin lay smashed in the middle of the coffee table, one beady blue eye staring up at him, judging.

Seb ran for his bedroom. His clothes lay strewn across the room, the mattress leaning against the wall, springs and fluff bleeding out of large gashes like weeping stab wounds. The kitchen was the same, dishes smashed across the floor, the fridge pulled from the wall, cornflakes crunching under his feet as he sank onto a chair at the table.

'Oo fook would break into this place?' Olly wondered aloud. Seb shook his head.

'Owt gone?'

Seb shook his head again; there was nothing gone, just as he expected.

'Ahd make tea but...' Olly glanced at the kettle. It sat in the sink, its element strewn on the table. Tea. Seb almost laughed. Tea. What use was tea?

He was shaking, he realised. Shivering, as if he were in an icy shower. He bounced his leg, hoping that would stop it.

'Em...do we call police?' Olly asked, sounding doubtful. Seb shook his head.

'Do you know oo did it?' He asked, sitting on the chair opposite.

'No.'

'What - I mean - well, no offence lad but what fook av you got to steal anyway?'

Seb didn't answer. Olly exhaled loudly and glanced around.

'Well, if you're sure you ent gonna call police...ah suppose we should start clearin this up?'

Seb didn't move. Olly got up slowly. He placed Emily in the high chair and began gathering cutlery from the floor. Seb rubbed his face, his mind numb and yet buzzing. Emily called his name, banging the element on the table. Seb did not hear. Olly tidied the kitchen in silence, returning the fridge to its place, sweeping up the broken plates and glasses, mopping up the spilled milk and cereal. Seb rose slowly and started to help. His hands shook as he picked up the handle of a mug, its jagged edges slipping as his hand trembled.

'Ere, stop.' Olly turned, taking the handle from him. Seb held up his hand, blood running down his palm. Olly embraced him suddenly, wrapping his arms about Seb's shoulders. Seb stiffened, unused to the touch of another person. Olly slapped his back, rubbing it vigorously. Seb wasn't sure what to do. Swallowing hard, trying to calm his shaking, he said, 'I need that gun. I need it.'

Olly nodded. 'Ah'll get on to it,' he said quietly. 'Ah'll do everything ah can, ah promise.'

He gave him another squeeze, hugging him tighter. Seb let him.

*

Seb could not sleep. He lay in bed, the duvet wrapped around him like a cocoon, listening. Beside him, Olly slept peacefully. Emily lay between them, her body so small and delicate Seb was afraid one of them might roll over in their sleep and smother her. He buried into the duvet, pulling it over his head, trying desperately to get warm. The flat and who had broken into it plagued him. It seemed like just the thing the local boys would do, but they would have taken the clothes and the radio, even the VCR. It could be the drugs, he thought, and yet - yet the door wasn't broken. They could have picked the lock like Olly did, but why go to all that effort when you were just going to trash the place?

Unless...he lowered the duvet, thinking. Unless you intended to be subtle, and take what you wanted, but when the realisation it wasn't there hit you, you had to send a message to the person who had had it...He sat up slowly, rubbing his face. Music pumped softly on the floor, echoing from the pub below.

Norman. He didn't want to go to Norman, but who else was there? Norman had taken the drugs, he would know what to do.

No. A chill ran through his body. Norman hadn't taken the drugs. Michael had. And Michael was dead.

Seb's stomach flipped. Michael had taken the drugs, and Michael was dead. Michael hadn't had the drugs, and now his flat was torn to pieces. Seb felt sick. He turned to Olly, flat on his front beside him.

'Olly,' he hissed. 'Olly.' He leaned over, shaking the older boy's shoulder. Olly grunted. 'Olly.' He shook him hard.

'What?' Olly's head jerked up, his hand pulling a knife from under the pillow. Seb blinked.

'Olly, what the fuck?'

'What – we're not -?'

Seb shook his head. Olly lowered the knife. Seb looked at him.

'What?' He said defensively. 'You want a gun.'

Seb nodded. He glanced about the room. 'Olly,' he said slowly, 'before you – before you came I found...' He bit his lip. Olly had such a big mouth he was wary of telling him, but if anyone could sort them out, he knew it would be Olly's dad. He sighed.

'Before you came, I found drugs. In my room. My mum must have – well they were there, ten kilos Norman reckoned. He thought she was keeping them for someone. He got Michael to come and take them. Michael, from the pub. Had those – took those – took the drugs.'

Seb looked at Olly. Even in the darkness he could see the other boy's eyes widen.

'Michael,' Olly whispered. 'From the pub?'

Seb nodded.

'And you think – whoever broke in...?'

Seb nodded. Olly ran a hand through his hair.

'Oh fook,' he whispered. 'Oh – oh Seb. This is fooked up mate. Big time fooked up.'

Seb sank down onto his pillow with a groan. That was exactly what he had feared himself.

14

'Well, whatcha think?' Olly threw his arm around Seb's shoulders. Seb stared. The door before them looked bomb proof; iron clad and laden with locks and bolts.

'Olly...what...' Seb stared, astonished.

'Few mates o me dad's coom over. Sorted.'

Seb swallowed, staring at his reinforced front door. 'But...it's not my house...' he said. 'Norman'll...Norman'll kill me.'

'Pfft.' Olly flicked his hair. 'Don't worry bout Norman. E won't mind.'

Seb pursed his lips. He wasn't so sure about that.

Olly laughed his loud, raucous bray. He was in good spirits, far better than Seb.

'Well, ahv ad a good father son chatter wi me dad.' His eyes twinkled. Seb felt uneasy.

'What did you say to him?'

Olly shrugged. 'Ah told im truth, dint ah? I told im...I told im what Norman's been up to.'

Seb's stomach flipped. 'What - what has Norman been up to?'

Olly shrugged. 'Just stuff,' he said mysteriously. Seb felt uneasy. He looked at the door. Seven locks and bolts he counted. Seven.

'Aren't...isn't your dad friends with Norman?'

Olly smiled, giving Seb a knowing look. 'A long time ago yeah. But, blood's thicker'n water right?' He shrugged. Seb said nothing.

'E's me godfather y'know. Always fooken ated im though.' Olly turned, sinking onto the arm of an armchair. 'But e were one o me dad's contacts an ah always ad t'be nice to im an do what e said an suck up to im. But now...' He grinned, a grin of smugness and satisfaction. He nodded at the door. 'As ah said...blood \- water. Fook wi me, y'fook wi me dad. An no one fooks wi my dad.'

Seb stood in the doorway, shoving his hands into his pockets. 'Norman didn't - Norman hasn't...' He looked at Olly. Olly looked back at him. 'No,' he whispered. 'He - did he?'

Olly raised his eyebrows. Seb felt the world crash about his head. 'He wouldn't - he wouldn't do anything to Norman,' he said, but it was an uncertain question, not a statement.

Olly shrugged. 'E don't av to do owt to Norman. E's not fooken stupid is e? On plus side, got meself some extra dosh outta it. Extra security. And...' he reached under the seat of the armchair, pulling out something hard and black. He held it towards Seb. Seb stared, speechless.

'Well, fooken take it. It's you wanted it, not me.'

Seb reached out slowly, taking the gun from Olly. It was lighter than he expected. He weighed it in his hand, cool and solid in his palm.

'It's not loaded,' Olly said. 'I've got the bullets in room. But Seb, just...just be careful what y'do with it yeah? Compliments o Frankie Bowman, an that ent summat to be taken lightly.'

Seb raised the gun, curling his finger around the trigger. He started as a cushion hit him.

'Watch where ya point that fooken thing,' Olly said. 'There's a baby in ouse. Ah know it ent loaded but...' He pulled a face, shaking his head. 'Fooken ate guns. Make me all nervous.'

Seb slipped the gun into his pocket. Despite its light weight in his hand it weighed heavily in his tracksuit bottoms, tugging on his waist.

'Ow'd you get on?' Olly asked, sinking into the chair.

Seb sat down heavily in the armchair opposite. He shook his head. He had spent the best part of the day trawling the area, asking everywhere he could think of for a job, any job. No one was interested. He was just another unqualified youth likely to be more trouble than he was worth.

'Ah, you'll find summat. Y'will, ah feel it in me bones.' Olly laughed. 'We've gotta check in at cop shop at six,' he added, pulling out his phone to check the time. 'An then ahm crackin out vodka, knockin back pills they gimme for this beauty, an few lads are coomin round for cans. We'll never get a babysitter again after last time, will we?' He chuckled.

Seb felt the pistol press against his leg. He knew it wasn't loaded, but he saw what Olly meant about it making him feel uncomfortable. Its presence alone, weighing down his trousers, made him feel tense.

Seb said very little the rest of the day. Olly said enough for both them. They attracted no shortage of curious looks in the green and luscious suburb where the police station was, but then he supposed two battered young boys and a baby would, wherever they were. Olly was oblivious, telling Seb about "the lads" who were coming over for cans later. Seb felt uneasy at the thought of these "friends" of Olly's dad.

He was right to have felt uneasy, he thought as they arrived. They had tightly cropped haircuts and arms that bulged out of their black t-shirts. Seb recognised them; they were part of a gang Norman had run out of the area two or three years before. He hadn't paid much attention at the time - keeping rivals off his turf was half of Norman's life - but he remembered it hadn't been the usual drugs, contraband or prostitution. There had been a lot of stuff going on at that time though, a lot of aggro for Norman and his "friends." Seb himself had received a hiding from a gang of Norman's own boys. They had kicked him and beaten him with bicycle chains and another gang, unrelated to Norman, had jumped in. Seb was sure the boys who had come to his rescue had been out cruising for a fight anyway, but the colour of his skin, and that of the boys beating him, had been the perfect excuse.

'Rascist gang? Haha Seb lad, you're a good un.' Olly crouched to look in the fridge, chuckling. Seb frowned.

'They killed a guy,' he said, keeping his voice as low as he could. The two boys were in the kitchen, under instruction to collect beer. In the sitting room Olly's acquaintances roared with laughter.

'That lot in there?' Olly said sceptically.

Seb shrugged. 'Maybe not them exactly. But their...lot.'

Olly shrugged, gathering an armful of cans from the fridge.

'They killed some kid cause he was - well, I dunno where he was from.' Seb frowned, trying to remember. He shook his head. 'He was English,' he said. 'But they killed him cause he wasn't white. They tortured him and hung him from a lamppost. They practically started a war here.'

Olly stood up. 'Amir Alwan,' he said. Seb blinked. 'That were kid that were ung. Ah remember it on the news.' Olly shook his head.

'Make them leave,' Seb said quietly. Olly looked at him.

'Ah, don't be fooken dry Seb,' he said.

'Olly - if Norman finds out -'

'Ah told ya, no need to worry about Norman anymore.'

'That's not the point,' Seb snapped. Olly shoved a can into his chest.

'Chill fook out Seb. Norman's not a problem an we're not fooken Paki are we? They're not gonna string us up anywhere.'

Seb took the can slowly. 'Olly...'

Olly put a finger to his lips.

'Ush lad. Come an chillax with us. It probably weren't even that lot anyway.'

'It was.' Seb slammed the can down on the side. Olly jumped. Seb snatched his hoodie from the back of the chair.

'I'm not staying,' he said, pulling it over his head. 'I'm not here. I never was.'

Olly gawped at him. 'Ah here, Seb lad -'

Seb pushed past him, storming into the hall.

'Seb.' Olly snatched his hood. He swung around, his fist slamming into Olly's face. Olly staggered back, the cans bouncing across the floor. Seb turned, pulling his hood back over his head. The men in the sitting room shouted and called as he yanked back the bolts on the front door.

'Ere,' one of them yelled. 'Pick us up some pills on your way back will ya mate?'

Seb marched out, slamming the door behind him.

The night was cold; winter had definitely set in now. Seb marched through it, coughing as the sharp air caught his throat. Olly was such a fool, he thought. He didn't mean harm, but as Seb had come to learn in life, there was no such thing as a harmless fool. He plunged his hands in his pockets and walked, careful to keep his hood up and his head down. If anyone had seen those men entering his flat...He was furious at the thought. Did Olly know their background? When he sat and laughed at their drink fuelled rants about the state of modern Britain, about religion and politics and Europe, was he aware of the trouble they had caused? Could cause? He was so stupid, Seb thought angrily. He had no sense of awareness. He pranced through life, happily sheltered by his father's reputation and power, oblivious to consequences, fancying himself something of a gangster, or a future gangster.

'When Emily's in school,' he'd told him, 'me dad's gonna gimme a bit o family business to run. Gonna prime me up to take over from im one day.'

But Seb knew Olly would never be his father. He was nearly eighteen; if Frank Bowman had wanted to prime his son for takeover of the business Olly would be elbow deep in it now, involved a long, long time ago. But he wasn't. He'd been sent to smart schools, far removed from his father's business, kept away from the reality of the "job." Olly thought it was because his father wanted him to forge valuable friendships with the children of the great and the good, the future politicians and businessmen, but Seb knew the reality. Frank Bowman saw what Seb saw; Olly was a liability.

He ducked into an alleyway as a group youths passed. He was itching for a fight. If he could find someone to drive his fists into, kick about a bit, he thought, he'd feel much better. He slid out of the shadows again and continued on his way. He turned down Shore Street, almost willing someone to touch him, whisper to him. But the street was quiet, almost empty, and not an eye glanced his way. He carried on, feeling the gun in his pocket. He wondered if shooting was like it was in the movies. He'd never seen anyone shot before. He'd heard about shootings happening here and there, but he'd never seen it. What would Norman think if he knew he had a gun? That would be priceless. It would almost be worth pulling it on Norman just to see his face. But of course, he hadn't got the gun for Norman.

It began to snow. Seb looked up at the sky, watching the snowflakes glitter in the streetlights. He turned down Jessica's street, still with no one to fight. He hadn't even thought about where he was going; he'd just followed his feet. He leaned against the tree opposite her house. Lights were on; she was hardly likely to be pleased to see him. She would be angry with him. Again. But there was something burning in him, not unlike the urge to fight. He had to see her. Had to.

'Seb, what on -'

He kissed her. Her lips were stained with wine and he tasted it as he kissed her, blackberries and alcohol, her scent, her skin, her body. He pulled her into him, as close as he could. It would never be close enough, he thought. Her body was so soft, seemed to fit his like a jigsaw. It made sense, it all made sense, women, sex, love, the perfect way she filled his arms. He kissed her neck, breathing in her perfume. He pressed his lips on her flesh, thinking how it felt like velvet, smelled like flowers. She protested, placing a palm on his chest, but her words were half hearted, her chest heaving under his hand.

'Seb,' she gasped, snatching his hand. 'Seb.'

He stopped reluctantly. Her face was flushed, her make up smudged. She was the most beautiful thing on this planet, he thought, even when angry.

'Oh Seb.' She raised a hand to her lips. Seb looked at them, tasting them on his own. She giggled. He stood, uncertain now, still with his arms around her. She lowered her head, burying it into his chest. Her body shook, her hair tickling his chin. Cautiously, he pressed his lips into her hair, breathing in her shampoo. She lifted her head, swatting his arm playfully.

'Oh stop,' she giggled. 'You are such a bad boy.'

Seb smiled. She wasn't mad at him. She wasn't mad at all. She was a little drunk alright, but he would take that.

'Come here.' She reached up, cupping his face in her hands. He looked down at her, his heart hammering against his ribcage. 'Such a handsome boy,' she murmured. He felt himself blush. She reached up, kissing him back. Seb felt himself thrill. He pulled her closer, tighter, sliding his hand down, running it over her buttocks. She grasped the front of his hoodie, pulling herself towards him. She dropped her hands suddenly, sliding them under his top. She smiled, running a finger across the top of his trousers. He shivered, feeling himself harden. She giggled again and bit her lip. He felt his face blaze. She dropped her hand, running it down his thigh, sliding her fingers down and -

'Oh Jesus Seb, what the fuck is that?'

He swelled, with pride and blood, until he realised what she was grasping. She pulled back, horrified.

'Seb, what the -'

He pulled away, out of her grasp. She held her hands to her mouth, gawping.

'Oh god,' she whispered. 'Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.'

'It's not - it's not...' Seb tried to think of something to say. Jessica covered her mouth, her eyes wide, gleaming in the dim half light.

'It is what I think,' she whispered. 'Oh god Seb, what the fuck are you thinking?'

'It's not - it's not loaded,' he said quietly.

'Christ on a fucking bike Seb, what the fuck are you thinking?'

Even though she was horrified at him, Seb had to admit he still thrilled when she swore.

He shrugged, desperately thinking of explanations.

'Oh god, what am I thinking? What are you thinking? What the hell are you involved with? Oh, do I even want to know.' She shook her head. Seb swallowed.

'I – I'm not involved in anything,' he said. She didn't look convinced.

'Show it to me.' She lowered her hands, clasping them before her chest. 'Go on, show it to me.'

Hesitantly, Seb drew the pistol out of his pocket. She stared at it, wide eyed and pale. He watched her face anxiously. She shook her head, stunned.

'I – it's not – it's not loaded,' he repeated. He pulled it open to show her the chamber. She stumbled backwards, away from him. He closed it hurriedly, placing it down on the hall table. It sat between them, small and innocuous, and yet its presence filled the room. Jessica stared at it, clutching her arms around her. Seb stood, anxiously watching her, waiting for her reaction. She turned to him, her eyes large and dark in the dim hall light.

'Where did you get it?' She whispered. He shrugged, not wanting to implicate Olly.

'Just...contacts.'

'Contacts.' She whispered the word in horror. Seb groaned inwardly at his choice of words. He didn't want her to think he was some sort of networking thug.

'Pete told me you were a good kid,' she said. 'He said – he said you weren't involved in anything like that. You were – straight up.'

She looked at him, almost pleading. He felt a note of panic rise in his throat.

'I – I'm not,' he said. 'I mean I'm not – I'm not involved in – in anything.' He looked at her, begging her to believe him.

'Well why the hell do you have a gun?' The speed with which she switched from shock to anger startled him. He mouthed wordlessly. 'Because as far as I'm aware, in this country, normal people don't have guns Seb! And to bring it – to bring it into my house –' Her voice choked with anger. Seb felt a wave of despair wash over him. Olly might be a fool, he thought, but even he wouldn't have been stupid enough to bring a gun into her house.

'Good god, you're insane.' She said it as if it has just occurred to her, and she should have known before. 'You're actually insane.'

'No – please Jess,' he said desperately. 'I can – I can explain.'

She laughed, not a scornful laugh, but one that sounded genuinely amused. She was the insane one, he thought. He'd never seen anyone move so quickly through emotions, except maybe his mother, but she'd been on drugs.

'Oh I'd like to hear that,' she laughed. 'I really would.'

She shook her head, covering her mouth again. Seb stood, waiting. He'd thought she would kick him out; he still did. He hovered, waiting for his command to go. She moved suddenly, pushing past him towards the kitchen. He turned, wondering whether to follow her. He glanced back at the gun. It sat on top of a notepad, beside an old fashioned phone he didn't know how to use. He picked it up quietly, opening the drawer of the table, and slipped it inside, sliding the drawer shut as quietly as he could. He turned and walked towards the kitchen.

Inside, Jessica stood at the table, pouring herself a glass of wine so dark it looked black. The kitchen table was covered in wine bottles, though none of them were empty. She sat down, knocking back the glass. Seb stood by the table, still waiting. She poured herself another glass, sipping this one. She rubbed her forehead with a sigh. Seb glanced at the wine on the table. There was a box full of it, so many bottles he couldn't even count, and the one she'd been drinking. He reached for one, lifting it from the box to inspect it.

'Be careful with that,' she said sharply. He put it back quickly. She sighed. 'Canadian ice wine,' she murmured. 'A present from my hus – from John. My ex husband.' She picked up a bottle, turning it over in her hand. 'Arrived today. A present for the opening of the exhibition.' She laughed, a hard, mirthless laugh. 'Wouldn't have remembered when we were married, and now he sends it early. Twat.' She placed the bottle on the table with a thud.

Seb thrust his hands in his pockets. The clock in the hall chimed, its low clanging echoing throughout the house.

'No, you know what, fuck it.' Jessica picked up a bottle and chucked it at Seb. He whipped his hands from his pockets just in time to catch it.

'Have it,' she said. 'To hell with it, let's have it.'

She reached for another bottle. Seb watched her peel the plastic from the top, twisting down the corkscrew. The cork slid out with a dull pop. Seb felt the slim, cold bottle in his hand. Jessica pushed a glass across the table towards him, nodding at the chair.

'Sit,' she commanded. He sank down into it, taking the corkscrew she held out to him. He copied what she had done, inhaling the sweet aroma that wafted after the cork.

'Bon appétit.' She took a draught of the bottle she had opened. Seb poured his, watching the pinkish liquid cascade into the glass. The bottle was small, and the whole contents fit into the glass. He glanced up. Jessica smiled at him, biting her lip.

'Enjoy it,' she said. 'It's expensive stuff.'

He took a sip. The sweetness hit his tongue with a satisfying freshness. He took a bigger sip, terrified he would break the delicate glass.

'Seb,' Jessica said. He looked at her. She placed her glass on the table and leaned towards him. 'Talk to me.'

He stared.

'Tell me why you have a gun. Which, if I'm not mistaken, looks like a stolen weapon, most likely from the police.'

Seb took another gulp of wine, looking away. He didn't know where the gun came from, but the thought that it might be stolen, and from the police, had never even crossed his mind.

'Simply having that on my premises implicates me,' she said. 'And as for you having it – well, how stupid are you? Don't you remember what I said to you the other day? They'll be looking for a reason to take you down Seb, and you know how the police have cracked down on gun crime. You won't get any leeway, whatsoever. Now, why the fuck do you have it anyway?'

Seb swallowed.

'My – my flat was robbed,' he said. A slight lie, but not a complete untruth, he reasoned. 'The night me and Olly – well, when we got back it was robbed.'

She looked concerned. 'Didn't you go to the police?'

He shook his head. She sighed.

'I – I'm just...' He paused. She waited.

'I'm just afraid,' he said quietly. She nodded.

'I mean, I wasn't before...but... I can take care of myself, I keep my head down and I keep out of trouble but it's just me and it doesn't matter what happens to me. But there's Olly, and he's got Emily, and she's a baby, she's so small and tiny and she can't do anything wrong but me – me and Olly can, and Olly gets in trouble with everyone and he has his dad's protection for now, but his dad's someplace else and Olly hasn't got a clue what it's really like and maybe it's OK for him if he gets hurt or something happens to him, but Emily doesn't deserve that, she needs her dad and she needs to be looked after and I don't know what to do, it's so dangerous and if something happened to her or to...to...' He trailed off, the whirlwind of words that had poured from his mouth leaving him breathless. He felt like an unfit person who had run a mile, breathless and sweating.

Jessica shook her head sadly.

'Too young,' she murmured. 'You're both too bloody young.' She took another draught of wine, a longer one this time, and tipped what was left of the bottle into the glass.

'If that's your intention,' she said. 'You should know homicide rates have been shown to be positively related to firearm ownership levels.'

Seb said nothing. He'd said more words than he was ever used to saying; he felt like he'd used them all up.

'You can't keep it. The risks are far too high, and there are no rewards,' Jessica said firmly.

Seb nodded. He knocked back the rest of the wine, gulping it down in three mouthfuls. When he resurfaced he knew he was crying; he could feel the wetness on his face, taste the salt mixing with the wine. Jessica opened another bottle.

'Good fucking riddance,' she muttered, dividing it between their glasses. He wiped his cheek quickly with his sleeve and picked up the glass. Jessica glanced at him, taking in his wet face. She said nothing.

'I thought – I thought you were going to kick me out,' he said quietly, swilling the wine about the bottom of the glass. Jessica took a drink of hers, her bracelet glinting in the light overheard.

'I would have done,' she said. 'A few weeks ago I certainly would have done. But you just keep coming back for more, don't you?' She sighed. 'And I keep letting you.'

They drank in silence. Seb was afraid to say anything in case her emotions changed again, and she decided he had to leave this time, though he was sure she wouldn't.

'Do you want some food?' She asked eventually. Seb shook his head. For once, he wasn't hungry. He wasn't even cold. He could see the snow coming heavily now, lighting up the nighttime outside. It silhouetted Jessica's dark head against the window, made her skin seem paler and brighter.

'What do you think of the wine?' She asked, polishing off her glass.

Seb shrugged. He was hardly an expert on wine, but it tasted nice enough. He said so. Jessica laughed, a genuine laugh this time.

'Nice!' She giggled. 'I should hope it was nice! Knowing John it wasn't cheap, so it would want to be nice.'

She reached for another bottle. Seb finished his glass, reconsidering his words.

'It's very nice,' he said solemnly. Jessica looked at him. She laughed suddenly, missing the glass she was trying to pour the wine into. She was so beautiful when she laughed, Seb thought. She was beautiful anyway, but when she laughed her face lit up, she became alive, attractive.

'Very nice,' she said thoughtfully, taking another sip. She frowned, making a smacking noise with her mouth as she pretend to scrutinise the wine. 'Yes, I should say it is very nice, isn't it?'

Seb laughed. Jessica laughed and shook her head.

'Mental,' she murmured. 'The world is mental. Life is mental.'

She rose, walking unsteadily around the table. Seb looked up at her, her magnificent breasts reaching out towards him. She leaned down, giving him a perfect view. He stared, mesmerised. She kissed him, a gentle, tender kiss that made his stomach squirm as if he were being tickled. He pushed himself upwards, kissing her back. She grabbed his elbows, hauling him to his feet. He went, stumbling over his trainers. She grabbed his hand, dragging him into the hallway. Seb staggered after her, his head spinning. Her grip was tight, her nails digging into his arm through his hoodie. He followed her up the stairs, taking them two at a time to keep from tripping. She stopped at the top of the stairs and kissed him again, more urgently now. He kissed her back, stopping only to pull his jumper over his head, discarding it on the floor. His t-shirt followed, exposing his body, bruised and tattooed. She paused, running her fingers over the tattoo on his chest and shoulder, down his arm. He shivered at her touch, the hairs on his arms rising as she traced the dark designs across his skin. She kissed him again. He felt himself harden, more solid than he ever remembered being. This was it, he thought. He thrilled with excitement and terror. She lowered her hands to his hips and pushed him suddenly. He staggered backwards, tripping on something under his feet. He fell, the bed catching him with a bounce. She climbed over him, straddling his lap. Her top peeled off slowly, revealing a lace patterned bra underneath. His head buzzed, unsure if this was quite real. He could have fallen asleep in the park again, he thought as she undid her bra, her chest heaving hypnotically. Too much vodka, under a bush. She leaned on his shoulders, pushing him onto his back. Bootleg gin, Absinthe. He went obediently, thrilling as his crotch pressed into the bottom of her stomach, her body weight bearing down upon it. Her breasts hung, her nipples brushing his chest lightly.

'Promise me,' she whispered in gasps between kisses. 'Promise me you'll get rid of the gun.'

He grasped her buttocks in his hands, pushing her crotch into his. She resisted.

'Promise me Seb.'

He nodded.

'I promise, I promise,' he gasped, knowing he would promise her his manhood, his life, anything right there and then, anything to keep her lips on his, her breasts on his chest, her hair draping across his face, her legs around his waist, thighs pressing on his thighs, her body weighing heavier and heavier on his crotch, throbbing and thrusting and he moaned, pulling his head back, a moan of pleasure and frustration. Oh no. Oh no. He groaned and turned his face away, embarrassed. She paused. He felt himself deflate, the wet patch spreading along his pants. Jessica sighed, though not a heavy sigh, and gave him a kiss, lightly, on the lips. She climbed off and lay down alongside him. He groaned again, pressing his fists into his eyes, resisting the urge to punch something.

'Sshh,' she murmured, brushing her fingers in a circle on his chest. She pressed against him, resting her head against his ribs, her hair tickling his armpit. He lowered a tentative arm around her.

'John Dryden,' she murmured, tracing her fingers across the tattoo on his ribs. He glanced at it, the words starkly black against his skin. She laughed gently. 'Gosh,' she said. 'There's so much more to you than you give away, isn't there?' She kissed the tattoo, brushing her lips against it, and closed her eyes. Her hair fell against his hand. He turned it over in his fingers, watching her face. Don't fall asleep, he begged. Don't fall asleep. Not yet. She sighed and shifted, turning her whole body against him. Her leg bent at an angle, her knee resting on his. He moved, as lightly as possible, slipping his leg in between hers. She seemed so small and delicate, curled up on the bed like a child. He wanted to hold her, protect her. He slipped his other arm around her and pulled her into him, savouring the warmth of their bodies intertwined. Outside, a cat screeched. He gazed out of the window, remembering the night the twins had beat him up outside. That seemed so long ago, so far away now.

Her head slipped, her hair brushing against his nipple. He felt himself start to harden again. Cautiously, he began to stroke her back, kiss the top of her head. He raised a hand to her breast, cupping it in his palm, running his thumb across her nipple. She sighed, the slightest exhalation, but stayed, eyes closed, sleeping. He groaned and kicked himself inwardly. Typical, he thought, so fucking typical. He shifted, pulling her as tightly into him as he could, resigned. Outside, the cat screeched louder.

15

'You're gay.'

Seb flinched as something hit the back of his head.

'Oh jeez, it's only a paper.' Olly rolled his eyes, flinging himself onto the armchair opposite Seb. He looked rough, his face pale and thin, his eyes red rimmed with tiredness. Emily had barely slept for the last few nights and refused to be left a moment without her father. She was asleep now, spread-eagled on Dolly's bed. It was only a matter of time before she woke screaming, but for now they had a couple of relief-filled, baby free hours.

Olly curled his knees up on the chair, pulling his hood up. 'Fooken - fooken freezin,' he yawned with a shiver. Seb lay his head against the arm rest of the sofa, catching Olly's yawn. Olly glanced at him. He pulled his sleeves over his hands, tucking them under his armpits.

'What?' Seb said. Olly copied him with his sleeves, tucking his chin into the top of his hoodie.

'You're not...well,' he said.

Seb shrugged. 'I've got a cold,' he said, sniffling as if on cue.

'Not that sorta...badly.' Olly shook his head. 'Ah mean like...not yourself.'

Seb frowned. He wasn't sure what Olly meant.

'Ah know you're not like...the chattiest sort or owt but...ah mean like, you're not...alert. Summat appen?'

Seb shook his head, curling his feet up under him. Olly shrugged.

'Meh. S'pose we're both knackered, ent we.' He yawned again, closing his eyes. Seb stared out of the window at the world around them, so brightly white it hurt his eyes. He remembered promising himself he would not ask Olly's advice. That had been about the gun though; this wasn't. This was about sex. And even if he hated the thought of asking anyone for advice, Olly did have a child, so he must know something about it. He sighed and pulled himself up, leaning on the arm of the seat.

'I – I was going to – I was going to have sex with Jessica but then I didn't cause I couldn't.'

The words gushed from his mouth, knowing if they hesitated they would never come. His hands tingled with an unfamiliar feeling, not unlike fear, but far more terrifying than anything he could recall.

Olly opened his eyes. He stared at Seb, his pupils so big his eyes looked black.

'You. Fooken. What?'

Seb felt his face blazed. 'I couldn't.'

Olly nodded slowly, thoughtfully. Then, to Seb's indignation, he threw back his head and roared with laughter.

Seb sat, unimpressed by his friend's reaction.

'Oh, oh Seb, lad, you are priceless!' Olly clutched his sides with glee. Seb glared at him.

'It's not funny,' he said. Olly hooted.

'Oh, but it fooken is!'

'No,' Seb snapped, 'it's not.'

Olly's mirth subsided gradually. He wiped his eye with the corner of his sleeve. Seb glared at him.

'OK, OK,' he relented, 'it's not funny.' He giggled again.

Seb turned back to the ceiling. Olly stood up, unfolding himself from the chair.

'Coom on,' he sighed, slapping Seb's thigh. 'Spill it. Tell us all, ow it appened, start to end.' He lowered himself onto the floor beside the sofa, making space among the shoes and crisp packets. Seb shook his head. Olly waited. He sighed and rolled onto his side, facing Olly. Olly crossed his legs, scratching under his cast. Seb told him, recounting the day's events in every detail, bar the weird feelings in his stomach. Olly listened intently, relishing his role as agony uncle. When he was done, Olly nodded.

'Well, there's a simple solution for that. And I ent even talkin little blue pills.' His phone began to ring. He reached into his pocket, pulling it out. 'Me dad,' he said. 'Ah better answer while she's still asleep.'

'Wait,' Seb said as he stood up. Olly looked down at him. 'So - what do I do?'

Olly grinned wickedly. 'S obvious right?'

Seb stared blankly at him. He laughed.

'Go round an do it again!' Chuckling, Olly ran off to answer his phone. Seb turned to face the back of the sofa, no more consoled or convinced than before.

*

The music was deafening, Olly's singing almost as loud. The flat pumped and pulsed, throbbing with the cheery sounds of a popular boyband from the stereo that had arrived with Olly's friends. They seemed like genuine friends this time, people he knew from school or home, who were not supposed to know of his whereabouts, but Olly was young, bored and reckless and if he couldn't get a babysitter so he could go out and party, he was partying here. "If moutain won't coom to Mohammad," he had declared. "Mohammad must build fooken mountain in livin room."

He pranced across the sofa, belting the lyrics of the song, posing and pouting for the trio of girls dancing and clapping in front of him. The room stank of tobacco and cannabis, the fug of smoke around a gang of other people, boys mostly, laughing and watching Olly's antics. Seb sat on the windowsill, rolling the gun's bullets in his hand. Dolly's room had been taken over by an amorous couple and anyway, he had said to Olly he would stay with everyone else. Emily sat on the floor, playing with her toys, oblivious to the noise and the people. Seb watched her, wondering how such a small person could put up with such big noise.

The song changed. Olly clambered off the sofa, wrapping an arm about one of the girls. He whispered something to her, an impish smile playing across his face. Her friend grimaced, glaring at him. Olly didn't notice. He buried his face into the girl's neck, nipping at it playfully. She squealed, protesting unconvincingly, and glanced up, catching Seb's eye. He looked away.

'Cheer up lad. Might never appen.'

Seb winced as two cans of lager landed in his lap.

'You got a face like a wet Sunday,' Olly said, leaning against the wall. Seb opened one of the cans and took a sip.

'Ah thought we ad a plan?' Olly belched, opening his own can. Seb shrugged again. Olly raised an eyebrow. They had spent the afternoon discussing what Seb was going to do about Jessica. Olly had rained wisdom and advice upon him, all of which could be summarised as "stop wanking", "don't drink" and "try it wi someone else first, so y'know what to do."

But Seb couldn't think of anyone else he wanted to do "it" with. Olly had assured him the girls that were coming tonight would be "up for owt after enough Bacardis" and that all he had to do was show half an inch of interest.

'Don't you fancy any of em?' Olly asked, exasperated. Seb shrugged. They were alright looking, he supposed. They looked down on him though, he knew. He also knew Olly wouldn't give up. He could be stubborn when he wanted.

'She's alright I suppose,' he muttered. Olly followed his line of vision.

'Sophie?' He grinned. 'Yeah, she's a goer ahv erd. Coom on then, get arse off that winda. Faint art an all that shite.'

Olly grabbed his arm, hauling him from the windowsill. Seb winced as the boy's hand caught his still-tender wound. Olly didn't notice.

Seb let himself be dragged across the room and paraded. Sophie smiled at him over the top of her neon coloured drink. Seb tried to force a smile back, sure it looked more like a grimace.

'Mah mate Seb as just been dumped,' Olly proclaimed. Seb glanced at him. 'And e's been stabbed. Show em your scar lad,' he urged, nodding at the wrong arm. The girls turned to him.

'I - no.' He shook his head.

'Ah, e's a shy one our Seb.' Olly slipped his arm about the blond girl whose neck he'd kissed. 'Strong an silent type e is. Like Mr Darcy.' He chuckled, staggering as the girl wrapped her arms about him.

'Only poor,' the sour faced girl muttered.

Olly relented, tumbling with the girl onto the sofa, propping himself up awkwardly with one arm. Seb watched them, pulling a face at the sloppy snogging.

'So, stabbed huh?' Sophie said. He turned back to her. What had he let himself into? The third girl sighed heavily and stalked off to join the other group.

'How'd it happen then?'

Seb shrugged. He was beginning to think she wasn't really all that. Not that she was ugly or anything, she was just...not Jessica.

Nonetheless he found himself underneath her half an hour and a few drinks later, dutifully drinking up her raspberry flavoured saliva, clutching her hips with both hands. Beside him Olly groaned, the blond girl straddled across his lap, her hips moving in sync with the music. Seb grimaced. Sophie pulled back, releasing him from her kiss. She glanced at Olly and her friend, pulling a face.

'Come on,' she said, grabbing Seb's hand. She hauled him from the sofa, dragging him through the sitting room into his bedroom. Two boys at the stereo whistled and cat called. Seb stopped. She glanced back at him.

'What's wrong?' She said. Seb shrugged.

'I - I've got um - I...can't,' he said lamely. She smiled.

'Come ooon,' she teased. She took his hand with both of hers, pulling him into her. She stood on tiptoes, planting a kiss on his lips and slipping a hand between his thighs. He caught his breath, a small, strangled squeak catching in his throat.

'Are you -' She giggled suddenly, her breath tickling his ear. 'Are you a virgin?'

Seb felt his face redden. 'Wha - no,' he said. She giggled.

'I - I'm in love with someone else,' he said, his face blazing.

'Someone who dumped you?' She cocked her head, pouting. Seb scowled. She laughed, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

'Well,' she murmured, giving him a gentle squeeze that drained the blood from his cheeks. 'You might be...but your cock isn't.' She giggled again. Seb groaned.

He let her pull him onto the bed, his body willing, his mind resisting. She pulled him down on top of her. She smelled of the blue raspberry drink and sickly sweet perfume. He tried to remember what Olly had told him to do. The music seemed to play louder, drowning out any other thoughts but those he concentrated upon Sophie, desperate to bring her some pleasure before he got his own. As Olly said, if he could do it with someone he didn't really know or like, then it wouldn't be such a big deal with someone he did, such as -

He groaned, slamming his forehead onto the bed. Sophie gasped, looking him up and down.

'What - oh.'

He rolled onto his back, burying his face into his elbow. Sophie turned onto her side, stroking his stomach lightly.

'It's OK,' she said. Seb growled, flinging an arm out across the bed. She traced a circle around his belly button.

'There are...other things...'

But Seb didn't want to know what other things there were. He rose, pulling his shorts back up. Sophie propped herself up on one elbow, pouting.

'What are you doing?' She demanded. Seb pulled on his tracksuit bottoms, snatching his t-shirt from the floor.

'You need to go,' he said. She gaped at him. He stormed into the sitting room, kicking off the switch at the socket of the stereo. The flat was plunged into a quietness that made his ears ring, punctuated with loud chatter and panting that stopped as the quietness magnified it. Olly peered out from behind the girl's shoulder.

'Seb?' He said. 'What fook?'

'Hey, turn it back on,' someone protested. Sophie stumbled out, fixing her top.

'Everyone has to go,' Seb said.

'Uh uh.' Olly extricated himself from between the girl's thighs.

'Go fucking where?' The sullen girl demanded.

'Away,' Seb snapped.

'What the fuck?' Sophie trilled.

Olly stood up, buttoning up his jeans. The couple from Dolly's room emerged to see what was going on.

'What fook's gon on?' Olly asked, approaching Seb.

'Make. Everyone. Leave,' Seb demanded.

'We're avin a right ol knees up,' Olly said. 'Don't go an ruin it all now lad.'

'Make. Them. Leave.' Seb squared up to the older boy, meeting Olly's angry glare with a steely one of his own. Olly shook his head.

'No. Fooken - no.'

'Oh, I'm off.' The sour faced girl stood up, snatching her coat. 'Come on Soph,' she said, pulling her friend towards the hallway. Sophie pulled away, glaring at Seb with watery eyes.

'You're a cunt,' she hissed. Her friend held her with one arm as she undid the locks and bolts. The boys stood up, gathering the stereo and their jackets.

'No, y'don't av t'go.' Olly shook his head. The blond girl pushed past him, slipping her arm around Sophie's other side.

'Mia, wait.' Olly grabbed at the girl's arm. The boys slipped out behind him. 'No, coom on,' he protested. Seb stood, unrelenting.

'Bye Olly,' Mia said quietly as the girls slipped out.

'Wait!' Olly glanced at them and back at Seb, glaring. Seb didn't move. 'Fine,' he snapped. 'Av it your way so.' He stormed out, slamming the door shut behind him. The bedroom couple scurried after him, letting themselves out. Seb watched them go. He turned back to the sitting room. Emily lay in a bundle under the window. He wondered how she could sleep, with all that noise.

Should he move her? He sank into an armchair. He could hear the others out in the street, their shouts and cries dampened by the snow. Better not. He'd wake her and he'd never get her quiet then. Fuck Olly, he thought, curling up in the armchair. He sighed and closed his eyes, resting his forehead on his knees. The cold began to return, stealing in now all the bodies had left. He snatched a t-shirt of Olly's from the sofa. It was damp but he draped it over Emily anyway, tucking it about her. She sighed, her little body heaving and falling. He made his way back to the armchair, cursing himself for taking Olly's advice. He was so stupid, he thought. So, so stupid. And so...crap. The door clicked. Seb froze. He hadn't locked it. Emily. Men in black, cricket bats. Emily. He'd hidden the gun in the kitchen. He knew he should have kept it on him.

'Seb?' Olly's voice, thin and reedy, wafted down the hall. Seb relaxed. He folded his arms, glancing up as Olly wandered into the doorway. He stood, pale and small under the dim, energy-saving bulb. He shrugged.

'I, uh - ahm sorry,' he mumbled. 'I - ah couldn't - Emily,' he said.

'I know.' Seb looked away. Olly made his way into the sitting room. He gathered Emily into his arms, wrapping her in his jacket. She barely stirred. Seb stayed curled in the armchair, watching.

'E?' Olly said, sitting down next to him. Seb shook his head. 'Yeah, me either.' Olly lay Emily out between them. 'They uh, they left some o this though.' He reached into his pocket, dangling a small bag of powder between his finger and thumb. Seb turned away, shaking his head.

'Well, don't mind if I do.' Olly opened it, pulling out a pinch. 'So, Sophie?' He said, sniffing loudly. Seb looked at him. Olly blinked, his eyes watering.

'Ah, ya didn't did ya?'

'You told me to do it.'

Olly sighed, dipping his fingers into the bag. 'Aye. That ah did. Ere, pass us a can there will ya?' He nodded at a plastic bag full of cans at Seb's feet. Seb fetched him one, and one for himself.

'On bright side,' Olly said, wiping his nose. 'We both got laid, dint we?'

Seb felt his stomach sink. 'Yeah,' he muttered. 'S'pose so.'

Olly took the can, cracking it open with a hiss. 'Well, we can av our own private party,' he said. He flung his arm out towards the window. 'Snow, blow an our own fooked up version of a family.' He took a gulp of lager. Seb opened his. Was that what they were? He wondered, a fucked up version of a family? He took a draught. They were more of a family than he'd ever known before.

'I thought you were going to leave me with Emily,' he said.

Olly tucked the little bag back into his pocket. 'So did I,' he admitted. He looked down at the toddler curled between them. 'Norman's missing,' he said.

Seb looked up sharply.

'What?'

Olly shook his head. 'Ah dunno,' he said. 'Me dad - me dad just told me.'

Seb shook his head. 'He's probably just off doing business somewhere. Or keeping his head down.'

Olly shook his head. 'Dad's convinced.' He took a long gulp. 'Seb,' he murmured, lowering the can. 'I - ah think me dad might...might know. Ah think e might be involved.'

Seb drank his beer.

'D'you - d'you think -?'

Seb looked at him wordlessly. Olly looked away. They drank, watching the snow flutter outside the window.

'You got bullets right?' Olly said. Seb nodded. Olly nodded. 'Good,' he said. 'Good.'

Seb nodded again. 'Yeah,' he said. 'Yeah, good.'

16

'Yeah. They're good.' Harry took a long pull of his joint and made a sucking noise through his teeth. 'Not a bad piece of equipment you've got there.'

Jessica suppressed a smiled. 'The subject or the camera?'

Harry shot her a look. He turned back to the pictures before them, pegged on a line across the kitchen.

'Well, you know I've never been a fan of photography,' he said haughtily. 'As I told our tutor in uni, it's an -'

'"Artless art,'" Jessica finished for him. He shrugged.

'It's a fine craft, I'll give it that,' he conceded. Jessica smiled. She sat on a chair, limbs crossed, watching Harry. He took another pull of his joint and nodded at a picture.

'When'd you get him naked in bed?' He said archly. Jessica laughed. He cocked his head, examining the picture. 'Nice tats.'

'Harry.' Jessica shook her head. 'Stop perving.'

'I'm not perving.' He folded his arms, exhaling. 'Just...admiring artwork.' He turned slowly. Jessica caught his eye. He laughed. She smiled. He shook his head, turning back to the photos. 'What do you think?' He asked.

Jessica rose and took a place beside him, surveying her work. She sighed.

'I hate them,' she said. She pulled one down. It was sepia, like all of the photographs, not quite overexposed but full of light so that it blurred slightly. In it Seb stood, pushing up the window sash, his face twisted with the effort. She tossed it onto the table with a frustrated sigh.

'Not what you were looking for?'

Jessica frowned at the photograph, twirling it at different angles with two fingers. She sighed and stepped back, folding her arms. Harry finished his joint, leaving the roach end in an ashtray she had left out for him. He leaned over, peering down at the photo. Jessica turned to fetch the kettle.

'Do you remember when we were students and we used to get stoned and have all those pretentious discussions about art and being an artist and stuff?'

Harry grunted. 'Yeah. Why?'

Jessica shrugged, turning to the sink.

'I was just thinking of that girl,' she said slowly, running the tap. 'The one who had always had crazy orange hair and did all that bonkers stuff?'

'Catrin Jones.' Harry straightened up. 'She was thoroughly doolally.'

Jessica held the kettle under the tap. 'What was her philosophy? Not your old "art for art's sake", something about...'

'Something about shagging the sculpture professor and then doing an exhibition about dumping him?'

'Yes that - her.' Jessica placed the kettle back and switched it on.

'"Art at any cost" it would have been, if she'd had a philosophy. She risked her degree for that. And you know she wouldn't have cared if she did, cause it made the art she wanted. Brave,' he shook his head. 'But she was mental so it could also have been that.'

Jessica fetched a pair of mugs from the cupboard. Harry leaned back against the table, watching her.

'Why?' He said. 'Are you thinking of taking up some life threatening performance art or something? Jumping off the roof of Tesco in a display about consumerist society?'

Jessica smiled. 'No. Well. I was just thinking about that very exhibition you mentioned. That poor professor and his family. He ended up in court you know.'

'I remember. Chai for me by the way.'

Jessica filled up the mugs. 'It's just...a curious concept in a way, isn't it, art at any cost?'

Harry shrugged. 'Not really.'

Jessica glanced at him. 'You see no ethical dilemma there?'

Harry narrowed his eyes. 'Seriously Jess, what's all this in aid of? I thought you scorned all that philosophising? I thought you were a philosophical philistine. On the side of pure hedonism.' He took his drink from her, eyeing her face. She shrugged.

'I like to think I'm not completely selfish,' she said, leaning against the countertop.

'Aw, come on, of course you're not.' He stepped over, slipping an arm about her shoulders. 'But a bit of selfishness never goes amiss now and again.' He flashed an impish grin and winked. She laughed.

'Says you.' She shook her head. He gave her a squeeze.

'Come on,' he said. 'Stop being so maudlin. It doesn't suit you. Let's go have a drink, hit up the old haunts.'

Jessica shook her head. 'I can't,' she said, slipping out of his grasp. 'I have - an interview. With the Sunday Times. About the gallery.'

Harry frowned. 'Today?'

'It was rescheduled.'

'Right.' He nodded, watching her down her coffee in four short gulps. She glanced at him.

'What?'

'You're fucking him, aren't you?'

Jessica blinked. 'What?'

Harry shook his head. 'Fuck me Jess, you've really outdone yourself this time.'

'What - of course I'm not!' She dropped the mug onto the table. Coffee streamed onto the dark wood. Harry shrugged.

'Well, I can't say I blame you...but he's a child Jess...'

Jessica snatched up a tea towel, flinging it onto the coffee.

'I knew you were into kinky shit, but the whole playing-mummy-incest-thing is a whole other level of fucked up altogether.'

'FUCK YOU!' She hurled the sopping tea towel at him. Harry ducked. It hit the pile of dishes behind him. She sank down at the table, burying her face in her hands. He approached cautiously, eyeing her with a frown.

'Jess?' He said. She shook her head, catching her breath in her throat. 'Come here.' He gathered her into his arms, pulling her into his chest. She sobbed gently, tears staining his probably-very-expensive shirt.

'I miss him,' she whispered.

Harry glanced at the picture on the table. 'Him?' Jessica sobbed. 'Oh, you mean -?'

She nodded.

'Oh, don't. He was a penis. You're much better off without him.'

She shook her head. 'You - you don't get it,' she sobbed. 'I'm so - it's just so...' She caught her breath.

'Girlfriend,' he joked, 'if you're going to say I don't know what it's like to be lonely, remember, this is a fucking city full of horny teenagers and all my friends are married, dead, or buggering off to Australia to find sexy surfer dudes, so don't tell me about being lonely.'

She pulled back, wiping her eyes. He rubbed her shoulders gently.

'I'm sorry.' She shook her head. 'I just - I seem to cry at anything these days.'

'Darling me too. I weep every time I see an inch of tangerine flesh. I'm almost constantly in tears.' She laughed. He smiled. 'Come on, we haven't got it bad, have we? As bad as him?' He nodded at the photographs of Seb. She sighed.

'No. No we haven't.'

'Right. We're rich, gorgeous and we've got another shot at youth, so let's make the most of if before we're fucking geriatric! Go clean yourself up, get on your glad rags and let's go party like the privileged little shits we are.' He grinned, planting a kiss on the top of her head. 'Come on. The Boatman, Carlisle's. Acquire some love drops from Freddie and rave all night. Go on. Go on go on go on go on.'

She smiled and sighed.

'Oh, why not I suppose. Give me thirty minutes.' She extricated herself from his arms, plucking the damp towel from the side. Harry sank down at the table, polishing off his drink. He took a small cigarette case from his jacket and lit up another joint, watching her tidy the dishes and glasses into the dishwasher. When she was done she swept upstairs, a fog of perfume wafting in her wake.

'Liar,' he murmured. He shook his head, turning back to the line of photographs strung across the room. He stared at Seb. 'You pikey little shit,' he said aloud. He inhaled deeply. Seb stared back, his eyes big and challenging, or maybe questioning, or maybe scared, Harry couldn't tell. Neither, he reckoned, exhaling slowly, could Seb.

*

Seb poured a pint, glancing surreptitiously about the bar. Beside him, Jamal slammed the till shut, turning back for the next order. Further down the bar Emily entertained a group of men, Olly looking none too worried about who she was associating with as he egged her on.

'Four pounds,' he said, placing the pint on the bar.

'Four pounds?' Paddy Whyte shook his head incredulously. 'You think cause Norman's not here you can take us all for a ride?'

'Four pounds,' Seb repeated.

Grumbling, Paddy Whyte reached into his pocket, laying the coins down on the bar.

'You're skimming some off the top, aren't you? I know you're a thieving little shit, wait'll Norman gets back, he's not happy with you as it is, no sir he's not, he said, I'll tell you what he said, he said that boy -'

Seb turned away to the till. Jamal caught his eye. He didn't like this, he thought, dropping the coins into the till; he didn't like this at all. There was an air in the pub, with Norman gone, but it wasn't a sombre one. He felt an undercurrent of nervous excitement and he didn't like it one bit. He mopped up the bar, listening to Olly encouraging the baby, the chuckles and guffaws of the older men. The boys at the pool table, usually so silent, murmured. Sally the working girl's laugh was too loud and Trevor the resident drug pusher pushed too hard. Even Paddy Whyte was less ebullient than usual. Seb did not like it at all.

The door opened. Seb's heart skipped. For a moment he expected Norman to stride in, booming with laughter. But it wasn't Norman; it was the bald man from before. He clapped his hands, attracting the attention of the clientele.

'Roll up,' he called. 'Roll up, roll up, we come bearing gifts gentlemen.'

Behind him, his team of lapdog scallys marched, laden down with boxes.

'Wicked,' Jamal said, tossing down the towel he was drying with. 'I've wanted a new iPod for ages.'

Seb watched as the men gathered around, clamouring to see the goods. The young men stood around like security, watching every move of the eager punters. Only Olly stayed away, watching the activity warily.

The bald man approached the bar, grinning. Seb watched him, taking in the man's chinos, his shirt and smart jumper, neat and respectable, though Seb had a feeling he was anything but. Two of his cronies followed, the biggest, most brutish looking ones. Seb eyed them, recognising them as the two who had given him a kicking before.

'Well well well.' The man leaned on the bar, smiling. His bodyguards kept their distance, stopping several paces behind to pull hard faces and flex their muscles.

'If it ain't the little mechanic's boy.' He wet his lips, cocking his head to one side. 'Though not anymore eh?'

Seb didn't react.

'Have I been hearing some wonderful stories about you sonny. Not just the crazy little shit your old mum used to tell me about eh?' He grinned. Seb clenched his jaw, knowing better than to react.

'Oooh yes, I remember your mum. She had some mouth boys, I tell you what.' His mercenaries guffawed. 'Every fucking way,' he added, shaking his head. 'Couldn't shut the fucking bitch up half the time, even dosed up on smack. Few slaps'd usually do it though.'

Seb clenched his fists. 'What do you want?' He growled.

'Ah, finally some hospitality!' The man clapped his hands, laying them flat on the bar. 'I think I would like a nice brandy please, good sir. And lagers all round for my boys. And whatever you're having yourself sonny. You can bring them down, we'll go find a nice comfortable spot, shall we boys?' He grinned, laying a fifty pound note on the bar, and swept off, the two heavies ambling behind him. Seb turned, pulling pint glasses from the shelf, slamming them down on the side. Olly sidled along the bar, bouncing Emily in his arms. She nattered to herself, absorbed in a button on her father's cardigan.

'You alright lad?' He murmured. Seb pulled the tap, tipping the glass underneath it.

'Need any help?' Olly offered. Seb shook his head. He glanced over at the man, reclining casually in a booth, watching the activity around his less than kosher goods.

'Who is he?' He asked, filling another glass. Olly glanced at the man.

'I dunno,' he said. 'Should I?'

Seb shrugged. Jamal returned, tucking his new iPod into his pocket.

'You're missing out bruv,' he said. 'Some sick stuff they got down there.'

Seb continued to fill pints, placing them on a tray. He made his way slowly across the pub, clasping the tray as tightly as he could.

'Ah, excellent.' The bald man nodded cheerily as he placed the tray down on the table. 'Boys.' He nodded at the drinks. The boys took theirs, settling back against the patterned booth. Seb unloaded the rest of the drinks and turned to go.

'Oh, not so fast.' The man reached out, grasping Seb's arm. Instinctively, Seb shook him off. Instantly, before he even had time to blink, the boy nearest snatched his arm, shoving him down into the seat. Pain shot through the bottom of his spine. He winced, squirming under the larger boy's grasp.

'Now now,' the man said, picking up his drink. 'No need to be hostile. We only want a chat, don't we fellas?'

Seb felt every part of himself tense. He sat still, the boy's hand pressing him into the seat. The man swirled his drink, the amber liquid sloshing gently up and down the side of the glass.

'I have come into possession of something recently. Something of yours.'

'His mum?' One of the boys sniggered. He shot the boy a disgusted look.

'Don't speak ill of the dead,' he snapped. The boy shut up. 'Crass,' he sighed, shaking his head. He turned back to Seb. 'No, this might have a bit more power and a little less smoke.' He reached for his pocket. Seb tensed, his ears ringing with the echo of his heartbeat. His mind rapidly calculated every option. The man drew out a phone. Seb relaxed, but his heart continued to pound.

'Look familiar?' He laid the phone on the table before him. Seb hesitated. He saw Olly watching over the shoulder of one of the man's boys, leaning against the pool table. He leaned over slowly, eyeing the glossy photograph taking up the screen of the phone. His breath caught in his throat.

'Yes. Nice machine she is.' He slipped the phone back into his pocket. 'My brother had one of those. She was a beaut. Nothing like this darling though. She's another breed. Very handy mechanic who fixed her up last.'

Seb balled his fists under the table, clenching his jaw. The man smiled calmly.

'Fags,' he said to the boy next to him. The boy scrabbled about his pockets, drawing out a battered box of cigarettes. The man took one from the packet, slipping it into his mouth. The boy held out a lighter, lighting up the cigarette for the older man. He inhaled, blowing the smoke out towards the ceiling and looked back at Seb.

'Where's Norman?' Seb asked suddenly. The man looked taken aback. He took a long drag of his cigarette and exhaled slowly.

'How on earth should I know?' His mouth curled with amusement. 'Can't be good for you though...no guardian, no protector, no one to keep the wolves off your back...your only job uncertain without Norman overseeing it...whatever will you do? You and your little friends over there.'

Seb followed his gaze. Olly looked away quickly. They turned back to each other.

'Making friends in high places, aren't you Daly?'

Seb stared at him. 'What do you want?' He said.

The man sat back, flinging an arm across the back of the booth.

'The bike's yours,' he said. 'In return for one or two things.'

Seb set his face. 'What if I don't want it?'

The man shrugged. 'You don't want it, I'm sure one of my boys will be more than happy to zip around on such a beauty, wouldn't you guys?' The two nodded. 'Either way,' he exhaled calmly. 'Protection costs. And if you don't have any money...'

'I don't need your protection,' Seb said. The boy's hand dug harder into his shoulder. The man laughed. 'Maybe you don't. But I'm pretty sure young Oliver's daddy would disagree. Can't be easy being a single teenage dad...difficult to look after - to protect - a little toddler. And you'd like a few extra quid, wouldn't you?'

Seb did not answer. He didn't like the way this conversation was going. He tried to shift, but the boy's hand kept him pressed firmly into the seat. He glanced at Olly, who had moved to a table, bouncing a plastic dinosaur across the table towards Emily. He turned back to the man.

'What are you going to do to them?' He demanded.

The man laughed, a high, almost effeminate laugh.

'Oh laddie,' he chuckled, shaking his head. 'Oh he's cute, isn't he?' He winked at his boys. They laughed. He turned back to Seb, suddenly serious.

'What I do or don't do is none of your business. Even if it involves you. Which it will, one way or the other.' He dropped his cigarette into the empty glass of the boy beside him and picked his drink back up. Seb dug his nails into the palms of his hands, his arms aching from the tension.

'Let him go Billy. Sit and have your pint.'

The boy let go of Seb's shoulders. The seat rose underneath him, sighing quietly. The man swilled his brandy and took another sip. 'Mmm,' he said dramatically. 'Norman always did have a fine collection of brandy. But then,' he laughed. 'I did supply it myself.'

The two boys guffawed dutifully.

'Ten p.m tonight,' he continued, pulling a small notepad from his pocket. 'I want you - here.' He wrote something and tore off the page, laying it on the table in front of Seb. 'It's your choice if you come or not, but I strongly suggest you do. Now take these pints over to the boys and tell Bowman to get his arse over here. And send him with another brandy.'

Seb rose slowly, folding the paper into his pocket. He placed the pints back onto the tray, conscious of the eyes of the boys watching him. The man reclined on the seat and sipped the remainder of his drink, surveying the pub with a contented look. Seb took the drinks to the boys at the pool table and passed on the message to Olly. Olly pulled a face.

'Did e say what it were about?' He asked. Seb shook his head. Olly sighed. 'Look after er will ya?' He nodded Emily. Seb opended his mouth to protest that he was working, but Olly was already gone. He gathered the baby into his arms. She wriggled and squirmed but he held her tight, breathing in the soft scent of her hair. He carried her to the bar. No one was looking. Surreptitiously, before he put her down, he planted a kiss on the top of her head.

'Who is that man?' He asked Jamal, standing back up. Jamal and Paddy Whyte snorted in unison.

'Are you for real?' Jamal said. Seb shrugged. Jamal turned his back to the bar, leaning against it as he faced Seb.

'Paul Crossan?' He looked at Seb in complete disbelief. Seb met his gaze blankly. 'Arms, munitions, women, contra? Just come out of ten in Full Sutton?'

'Only served seven,' Paddy Whyte belched. Jamal shook his head.

'For what?' Seb watched Olly and the man over Jamal's shoulders, the back of Olly's head bobbing as he spoke. Jamal folded his arms with a shrug.

'What was it Paddy?' He said. Paddy Whyte polished off his pint, wagging the empty glass at Seb.

'Armed robbery. Aggravated assault. Some other stuff, but that got dropped. His kids are still inside though. My young one used to go about with his eldest. Brutish thugs, never seen the like. Real RA heads like.' He glanced around at the group gathered at the pool table. 'I see he's got a little army trained up to replace them.'

Seb placed a fresh pint on the bar before Paddy. Jamal stood up, turning back to the bar.

'Is he getting in with Bowman then?' He asked, pouring himself a pint of lager. Paddy Whyte licked the moustache of creamy stout from his top lip.

'Ah, he was already well in with Bowman. Mates since they were both in Lancaster Farms. Practically Bowman's personal armourer I'd say.'

'He'll have some smokes coming in soon, won't he?' Jamal said.

'He's better,' Paddy Whyte nodded. 'I'm nearly out.'

Olly stood up. Seb watched him closely. Next to Crossan's hulking flankers he looked positively childlike, small and slender, dwarfed. He turned, heading back to the bar. Seb tried to read his face, but he wasn't very good at figuring out other people's emotions.

'Where is she?' He said, leaning across the bar. 'Ah Seb! Fook's sake.'

Olly swept behind the bar. Seb glanced down. Emily sat on the floor by his feet, the corrugated edges of a bottle top sticking out of her mouth. Olly squatted, scooping the cap out with a grimace.

'Yuck,' he said, chucking them back into the crate she had obviously retrieved them from.

'Yuck,' she repeated with a giggle.

'Yes, yuck. Dirty.' He scooped her up awkwardly in one arm. 'Dirty.'

Seb grabbed Emily, fixing her into a more comfortable position in Olly's arms. Olly nodded.

'Ahm - ahm gonna take er upstairs,' he said. 'Ah'll - what time am ah on?'

'You're not.' Jamal chucked a handful of change into the till. 'Mel's nephews are down, they're taking the night shift when it gets too late to search.'

'Search?' Seb said.

Jamal snorted. 'Well you don't think Norman's gonna just wander back in do ya?' He handed change back to the boy at the bar. 'Not in one piece anyway.'

Seb glanced at Olly. Olly raised his eyebrows, shrugging slightly. Seb felt his stomach twist into a knot.

'Go get their glasses will ya?' Jamal nodded towards the pool table. 'And another round for them, on the deceased.'

'No respect,' Paddy Whyte grunted. Seb picked up a tray, noticing the throbbing in his arm.

'Ah'll see ya in a bit,' Olly said, nodding as Seb stepped past him. Seb nodded.

'Yeah,' he said, 'see you in a bit.'

At least, he hoped he would.

17

Seb unlocked the three locks that now garnished the outside of his front door, slipping into the flat quietly. Olly sat cross legged on the sitting room floor, puffing gently on a cigarette, a newspaper open before him. Emily was nowhere to be seen.

Seb stepped into the room. Olly did not look up from his paper, but said, 'Ahm not sure ahm a fan o massive tits. Ah mean they kinda make a girl look fat when she's not naked, don't they?'
Seb glanced at the paper open at Olly's knees, the overinflated breasts of a topless woman looking impressive, even upside down.

'Ah mean ya want to bury your ed in em, don't ya, but ya don' wanna fooken smother.' He paused. 'Well, mebbe some blokes do. Everyone's got their fetish ah guess.' He turned the page, taking a lungful of his cigarette. Seb stood by the armchair, watching. He glanced up, his eyes red under his shiny pale hair.

'Sup?' He said. Seb shrugged. He fingered the piece of paper in his pocket.

'That – that Paul bloke,' he said slowly. Olly tensed. It was the slightest twitch, but Seb noticed. 'He wants me to go see him. Tonight. Here.'

He held the paper out towards Olly. Olly took it and sat back, unfolding the note.

'I dunno where it is,' Seb said.

Olly blew a cloud of smoke and shook his head. 'Me either. Yuh'll av to ask downstairs or summat.'

'No way.' Seb shook his head. 'I don't –' He paused. Olly looked at him. 'I don't want anyone there to know,' he said, adding, 'Just in case.'

Olly nodded slowly. 'Well,' he said. 'Your other option is a taxi.'

Seb pulled a face. 'I can't afford a taxi.' He thought of the scant funds he had left, rapidly depleting.

Olly sighed. 'Well, can you afford not to go see him?' He looked up at the younger boy. Seb looked back. He shrugged. Olly shook his head.

'No you can't,' he said.

'What does he want?' Seb's voice seemed to carry around the room, echoing back at them. Olly shrugged.

'Do ah look like Mystic Meg?' He said, but the humour in his voice was strained. Seb didn't know what that was supposed to mean. Olly sighed and stubbed his cigarette out on the side plate he was using as an ashtray, one of the few items that had survived the kitchen trashing.

'Norman's dead,' he said. Seb felt himself tense.

'You don't know that,' he said sharply. Olly shook his head.

'Yes I do,' he murmured.

Seb wanted to argue that he wasn't, that Norman had gone off for days before, even weeks sometimes, when the heat was on or there was business to be done, and he'd always swanned back in, tanned and smiling, like he'd never been away. But he didn't. There was something different about this time, he'd known it, though he hadn't wanted to admit it. Olly's unease, the nervous anticipation in the pub, almost bordering on excitement. But most telling of all, he thought, was Mel's distraction. The search that was supposedly happening. He'd known, when Jamal had said that, that something wasn't right; Norman had never left his wife in a quandary before.

'Who did it?' He asked quietly.

'We did.' Olly unfolded his legs, stretching them out over the newspaper. Seb shook his head, his stomach doing somersaults inside him.

'What?' He said, confused. 'No we – what do you mean? We didn't.'

Olly shook his head. 'We as good as did,' he said. 'But it's not our fault, not really. E ordered the attack on your flat, dint e? Not for you. For me.'

Seb frowned.

'E did. Me dad checked it out. Dunno why. Summat to do wi me bein a threat. Ah were only off loadin me leftovers though, ah weren't tryin t'get in on is turf, e shoulda known that.' He looked up at Seb, his face sketched in earnestness.

'So your dad....did it?'

' I dunno. Maybe. E wouldn't say as much outright, would e, even to me.' He pulled his knees up, wrapping his arm around them. 'But yeah,' he added. 'Probly. Not like e's just gonna let someone mess with is son an grandkid, is e? Give others ideas, make im look soft. Frank Bowman? No.' He laughed dryly. Seb couldn't really see anything to laugh at, even mirthlessly.

'Is that what that Crossan bloke was saying to you then?' He said.

Olly shook his head. 'Not quite.' He volunteered no more, his legs falling back into a cross legged position. Seb sat down on the arm of the armchair.

'Well....what did he want then?'

Maybe whatever he wanted with Olly would be a clue to what he might want with him tonight, he thought. He hoped.

Olly sighed. 'E wants me to elp im, dunnee?' He said. 'Well, elp's not right word but...well me dad's agreed to it, so I don't exactly av much choice. Distribution That's what we'll call it. Community liaison an logistics distribution officer.' He laughed humourlessly again. Seb didn't. He had no idea what Olly meant, but he didn't like the tone in which he said it.

'You know what this means don't ya?' Olly added.

Seb's head was buzzing so loudly he wasn't sure he was able to think about what any of "this" meant at all.

'There's gonna be war.'

The words were quiet but heavy, weighing down the atmosphere around them. Seb frowned.

'Norman's turf is up for grabs right?' Olly continued, sensing Seb's confusion. 'Crossan wants it. E's never been into drugs before, e worked wi Norman an all that, but that were Norman's slice o pie an now e's gone Crossan wants it, an me dad wants to elp im get it, an there'll be others want it, oo'll kick up cause they'll figure or they'll think they figure oo killed Norman, an Crossan will be out imposin is power, remindin everyone oo e is, an it'll all be a great excuse to get a few rivals outta way an settle some other old grievances while they're at it. An me dad's wi Crossan, means ahm wi Crossan, an e's gonna find some way to get you on is side, an if you're not, you'd wanna be on someone else's or you're brown bread. Or worse.'

Seb struggled to get his head around what Olly was saying. He knew what he meant, but the idea that Norman was gone – Norman, who he'd never really liked or trusted, but whose protection he had taken for granted, even exploited – the idea would not stay in his head, as if it were too big and would not fit.

'Crossan's me dad's man down ere now,' Olly added. 'An lad, if you thought Norman was a twat, Paulie Crossan is...well, e's just fooken mental. Real clever. Proper education, university an all. But bonkers. If e gets into drugs e'll av place sewn up.'

He leaned on his knees, hands dangling between his legs. Seb felt the same sense of apprehensive excitement emanating from him, the same nervous anticipation that had permeated the pub. It did nothing to put him at ease. From inside Seb's room, Emily began to cry. Olly stood up slowly, grimacing as he unfolded his limbs.

'Well, best see what this lil lady wants,' he said, stretching. He dropped his arms, looking straight at Seb. 'Best o luck,' he said. Seb nodded. He had a feeling he might need it.

*

It was a warehouse. Seb's concerns when he saw that the address the cab driver took him to was not a house, or, hope of hopes, a restaurant, but exactly what he had feared it would be, was not eased by the cash he had to part with to get there. That was pizza, he thought ruefully, handing a crumpled note to the driver. Pizza and cheese and bread and maybe a bottle or two of wine or cider. But it could also be the purchase price of his limbs - or more - he told himself, turning towards the long brown building. Around him, the snow soaked up any sound, bringing an eerie silence upon the yard. He looked around, wondering where he was to go. As if on cue a large door, like a giant house front door, opened, spilling light onto the sludgy snow outside. A boy, smaller than Crossan's bodyguards, though still bigger than Seb, stepped out, beckoning to him. Steeling himself, Seb made his way towards the door. As he neared he noticed the awkward angle at which the boy held his arm. Glancing down, he started as he saw the nozzle of a gun protruding from the boy's sleeve.

'In,' he muttered, standing aside. Seb stepped over the threshold. As he did so, hands grabbed him from either side. Startled, he cried out, squirming as another man patted him down, pushing up his top, pulling the contents of his pockets - keys, change, mobile phone - from his tracksuit bottoms.

'He's fine,' the man grunted. The hands released him. 'Follow me.'

Seb followed the man, fixing his hoodie and t-shirt as he went. The boy with the gun trotted in their wake. Inside, the warehouse was just like a normal house, only long and thin. Seb hadn't been expecting anything like it at all and he stared around in wonderment, taking in the distressed wooden floors, the artwork on the exposed brick walls, the brightly coloured children's play mat that carpeted one room. They passed through a living area, sharply decorated in reds and blacks and white, the kitchen homely and old fashioned, colourful magnetic letters spelling out something on the fridge.

'He's here,' the man announced, leading them through a sparsely furnished office to a rooftop terrace overlooking the canal. The terrace was lit with what looked like large, flaming sticks and two lantern-like lights dangling overhead. Heat, desperately needed, emanated from a large outdoor heater in the corner. At the far side of the terrace, nearest the water, Crossan and a group of his youthful cronies sat at a table, a game of chess laid out upon it.

'You're a lucky bastard,' Crossan said light heartedly to the boy opposing him. 'But I'll get you, I will.' He looked up, taking in Seb and his company.

'Very good,' he said with a nod. 'Glad to see you've got more sense than that blondie friend of yours. Tom, you can head back, good boy. Have a look in at the twins as you pass will you, make sure they're not still up with Klinsmann's boys, I told them no video games after seven on a school night. The Klinsmanns should know that too.'

The boy left, pulling the terrace door behind him. Despite the heater's glow, Seb felt the chill of the night settling on his skin. Crossan sat back in his chair, smiling disarmingly.

'Well,' he said. 'I'd offer you a seat, but I tend to find that business is best done in this position. Smoke?' He picked a packet of cigarettes from the table, proffering them towards Seb. Seb shook his head, plunging his hands into his pockets for warmth, and to hide their shaking that had little to do with the cold.

'What do you want?' He muttered. Crossan lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply. 'I trust,' he said, smoke billowing out of the sides of his mouth. 'Young Bowman junior has given you the lowdown on the current situation?'

Seb shrugged. Crossan narrowed his eyes. 'Well, has he?' Seb shrugged again. 'Yeah. Well, kind of.'

'Good friend of mine, Bowman. Good to me. Good to my boys.' The boys around the table cheered.

'Not you lot,' Crossan snapped. They fell quiet. He turned back to Seb. 'My eldest boys. You look a bit like one of them.'

Seb shifted uncomfortably.

'Used to know your mum as well. We used to be right pally, back in the day. She was a looker in her time. We...walked out for a bit. When would that have been Mike, god, back in the early 90s?'

The man beside Seb looked thoughtful. 'Oh god Paulie,' he said. 'I dunno, I'd say about – what, seventeen years, eighteen years ago?'

Crossan nodded, staring hard at Seb. 'Yeah. Yeah Mike, that would be about right I'd say. Just before Jimmy was born.' He cocked his head, looking Seb up and down. 'Yeah, you look a lot like Jimmy you do. Skinnier, but...it's there. The resemblance. Ain't it Mike?'

Mike nodded. 'Oh yeah. Jimmy through and through. Spitting image.'

Crossan laughed. 'Yes. Ciara – my wife – always used to say that of all of em, the only one we could be certain was mine was Jimmy.'

Mike nodded again. 'He was your kid, through and through,' he said. Seb stood, squeezing his fists in his pockets. He thought of what Paddy Whyte had said about Crossan and his boys being in prison. Slowly – carefully – he said, 'Where is he?' Crossan's face changed. He sat forward, leaning both elbows on the table.

'He's dead,' he said. His voice was cold, not dispassionate, but lacking in everything Seb expected to hear when someone said that about their children. A chill ran down his back, nothing to do with the temperature outside.

'He was shot,' Crossan continued in that cold, almost disdainful tone. 'Three years ago. In the head. Right...oooh....right about...there.' He pointed across the water, to another warehouse the other side. Lights from the stylish looking apartment block beside it shone down, making the graffiti reflections in the river seem to glow.

'They got him on his way home from school,' Crossan continued. 'They took him to a warehouse further south. They beat him to a pulp, removed all his teeth with a pliers, one by one. They broke all his fingers and pulled off his fingernails. Then they tied elastic around his balls until they went blue, and they removed them, with a meat cleaver. Just like – that.' He thumped the table with the side of his hand. The boys around him winced, lowering their heads.

'Then,' Crossan continued calmly, not taking his eyes off Seb. 'They took him out here, near my home. And while my wife and daughter sunbathed on this very terrace, they hauled him onto the roof of that building over there, and they shot him in the head.' A heavy silence settled on the terrace. Crossan shrugged. 'He was fourteen years old,' he said. 'And they tortured and killed him. Because he was my son.'

He sat back, folding his arms across his chest. Seb didn't move, keeping his eyes on Crossan, his other senses keeping watch around him. Suddenly, so suddenly every boy at the table jumped, Crossan erupted with laughter.

'Look at him!' He motioned towards Seb. 'Not a flinch! Not a flicker!' He laughed, a hard, solid sort of laugh that seemed to bound off the walls around them and out over the water. 'Oh yes,' he said with relish. 'That's my boy alright. My boy indeed.'

Seb frowned. It was wrong, he thought, all wrong, to describe a death like that and laugh about it. Even he couldn't find anything to chuckle about his mother's death.

'Is it – is it true?' He said, unable to keep the hint of scepticism out of his voice. Crossan changed again. His laughter stopped as suddenly as it had started. He sat forward, slapping his hand on the table so hard the chessboard jumped, the pieces falling like corpses to the table.

'Of course it's bloody true!' He snarled. 'What sort of sick fuck do you think I am?' Seb did not answer. Crossan stood up.

'You think I'd make up shit like that about my own kid?' He growled. Seb didn't respond. He had a feeling Crossan expected him to, but he wouldn't. Crossan stepped out from behind the table. 'It's true,' he said, advancing towards Seb. 'Every incy – wincy – teeny – weeny – little - word.' He stopped before the boy. Seb held his breath. Slowly, Crossan reached out, touching Seb's cheek. Seb made to pull away, but stopped. Crossan stroked his cheek with the back of his fingers gently, almost lovingly. Seb clenched his jaw, but otherwise made no movement.

'But I got them back,' he said softly. 'I got them back, good and proper. Won't bring back my Jimmy, but he got justice.' He cupped Seb's face in his hand, squeezing so his cheeks pressed painfully into his teeth. Seb met his gaze levelly. He released, tapping Seb's cheek.

'Handsome boy,' he said cheerfully.

'Wouldn't expect anything less,' Mike said. Crossan let go of Seb's face, stepping backwards.

'Always good to welcome a new face to the family.' He turned to Mike and grinned. 'What do you think, will Ciara have a heart attack when she sees him or what?'

'An absolutely massive coronary,' Mike grinned back. Crossan laughed.

'I'm not –' Seb began. 'I don't...' Crossan watching him expectantly. He struggled, trying to think of how to say what he wanted to say, or whether he really wanted to say it all. His mouth definitely did not.

'Oooh, you don't know what you want,' Crossan teased, ruffling Seb's hair. 'But I do. You want your balls, your arms, your legs, you want your job back and your bike, you want to keep that pretty face of yours just that, you want to keep on the right side of me and your little friend's daddy, and you want that pretty, pretty lady living in the big posh house to stay pretty and living, don't you?'

Seb felt what little warmth remained in his body drain from it. Crossan smiled, sensing the boy's horror.

'I mean it would be such a shame to damage her more than she already will be, wouldn't it boys?'

The boys at the table murmured their assent. Seb swallowed the obstruction in his throat. 'What,' he said, his voice a scratchy whisper. He cleared his throat. 'What are you going to do?' But he already knew the answer.

'Oh, nothing that's any of your concern. Oh, don't look so worried,' he said brightly. 'No one's died. And they won't, if they stay onside.' He turned, walking back towards the table.

'I do have a little job for you,' he said, sitting back in his chair. Seb tensed. 'You'll enjoy it I think. And I pay well, don't I boys? Even from inside.' He chuckled. The boys murmured in agreement. 'Tomorrow morning,' he continued. 'Nine o clock, here. And I won't take tardiness or slacking sonny. I've heard you're a worker, so you'd better be. Mike, you can take him back. Make sure he gets home OK. Never know who's out on the streets these days.'

Mike took Seb's arm, his grip almost vice like. Seb did not resist.

'Listen to Bowman's boy,' Crossan called after them as Mike dragged him back inside. The words echoed in Seb's brain all the way back through the house, into the car outside, everything Crossan had said churning in his mind like a tumble dryer. He tried to sleep. He couldn't.

18

Ciara Crossan was an imposing woman. Tall in teetering heels, with tanned skin that glistened in the sharp light blazing through the old warehouse windows she stood, her face free of make up, smoking a cigarette and staring wordlessly at Seb. Seb tried not to let his gaze linger too long on the woman's rather large breasts, that were almost spilling out of the tight sleeveless top she wore despite the wintery conditions outside. Her hair, a shade of platinum his mother would have been proud of, was scraped back off her face, revealing slightly darker roots where fake hair met real. Seb picked a strand out of his food and hoped she didn't notice. Olly had warned him about Ciara Crossan. 'She's mental,' he had said. 'Actually genuinely proper fooken mental.' The older boy had attributed her mental-ness to her high strung nature, the copious amounts of drugs she had consumed in her time as a model, and witnessing the death of her son, which made sense to Seb. He had regaled him with stories of parent's weekends and days being returned or collected from school, where Mrs Crossan had provided the boys endless entertainment with her bizarre behaviour, random outbursts of rage, a repulsion for anyone with red hair, once stripping off in the middle of a diving competition in which one of her sons was competing and climbing in the pool, to the delight of the entire lower sixth.

'She were scary when we used to come down visit though,' Olly had added. 'Y'never knew if she were gonna flip at you or try an coom on t'yuh.'

Which all told Seb this was not a family he wanted to get on the wrong side of, and that Olly had lied to him. He had known who Crossan was. He supposed it was possible Olly might not have known what the man looked like – he'd been in prison since the boy was eleven after all – but he had known. Mrs Crossan exhaled slowly, momentarily obscuring herself in a cloud of smoke. Seb lowered his head over the plate of food she had thrust upon him when he had arrived, picking around the bacon and sausages to the egg and beans. The toaster popped. Sticking her cigarette into her mouth she turned, dropping the toast onto a plate. She buttered it violently, as if the toast had done something to personally offend her. When she was done she flung the plate onto the table towards Seb, so hard one slice flew over the edge and onto the floor. Seb looked up at her. She looked back, leaning against the worktop. Slowly, he bent down and picked up the toast, placing it back on the plate. She poured herself a glass of orange juice, her hands shaking as she did so, sloshing juice over the side of the glass and onto the kitchen counter. She didn't seem to notice. Seb, unsettled by her stare, glanced around the room. It was bright and spacious, filled with books and photographs, mostly of grinning young kids and teenagers. One large picture on a table beside the sofa caught Seb's eye. For a heart stopping moment he thought it was his mother, slimmer and glossier and more glamourous, with Paul Crossan's arm around her hips, but he quickly realised it was Ciara Crossan, and his heart started again. They seemed to be in some sort of theme park, surrounded by a gang of laughing children, waving and brandishing ice creams. There were two older boys, large and muscular like Crossan's other mercenaries, holding two very young children, who were both dressed in suits of some sort of cartoon superheroes, from what Seb could make out. To the further side of the picture, on the other side of the smiling couple, two other children sat, perched on a wall. One, a petite young girl in a very short skirt that showed off her long, bronzed legs, stuck her tongue out for the camera. Beside her a boy, the only one not in shorts, reclined against the wall, one hand shading his eyes like a salute as he stared right into the camera lens. Seb didn't need to ask to know this was Jimmy. He looked very young in the picture, eleven maybe, or twelve, but there was no denying the resemblance between himself and the boy he was looking at. His appetite, which hadn't been particularly ravenous in the first place, sank to the bottom of his boots. He turned away, catching Mrs Crossan's eye. She stared at him, hard. He looked away quickly, shovelling a forkful of egg into his mouth. Olly was here somewhere. Mike had arrived to pick him up that morning, and had insisted Olly come too. When they had arrived Seb had been ordered to the kitchen for his breakfast, while Olly had been led away, unable to leave Emily in the playroom for her screaming. Where had they gone? He wondered, a knot beginning to tie itself in his stomach. He didn't like this place, he didn't like it at all. Mrs Crossan with her silent stare, the reems of young men wandering about the house, the missing children, the dead one, the veiled threats and insinuation. It was a beautiful property, edgy and no doubt expensive, but it felt haunted, and not just by the dead. The thought of having to spend the day there filled Seb with dread.

'Ah, there he is!' Crossan breezed into the room suddenly, red faced and sweating in shorts and a t-shirt that stuck to his back, his two bodyguards sweating in his wake. 'I see you've met my wife,' he said, pouring himself a glass of water. 'And boss.' He grinned at Seb. 'Ciara's an art dealer.'

He swept over to Seb, clamping a hand on the boy's shoulder with such force Seb was sure he felt his bones rattle.

'Whaddaya think?' He said brightly. His words seemed to be directed to his wife, but she did not respond. Her eyes remained on Seb as she exhaled slowly.

'He's Angie's kid,' Crossan said. 'Pretty boy, ain't he?' He ruffled Seb's hair, shoving the boy's head forwards as he did so.

'Tragic what happened to her,' he said, stepping away from the table. 'I was looking forward to seeing her when I got out.' He walked towards the sink, pouring himself a glass of orange juice.

'She came to see me a few times in the clink,' he said. 'Didn't look in a great way. Amazing what time does to people. Time, and junk.' He shook his head, slipping an arm about his wife's waist. She looked away, her eyes falling on the photograph Seb had been looking at before. She looked back at Seb, with a look so cold he felt the temperature inside the room drop.

'Did Bowman come?' Crossan asked. Seb nodded. 'Good. Knew he would. Nobody says boo to Frank Bowman, do they boys?' He laughed. His burly lackeys followed suit. 'Mind you,' he added, taking a long draught of juice. 'Say that granddaughter of his will have him wrapped around her little finger soon as she realises the power girls have over their daddies. And all other men.' He laughed again, echoed by his bodyguards. Seb laid his cutlery down, unable to force himself to eat anymore. 'Tell ya what,' Crossan continued. 'I can't wait for grandkids, eh Kiki?' He gave his wife a squeeze, pulling her into him. She pulled away, slamming her orange juice down.

'Well we're not going to get any soon, are we?' She said, her voice low and ominous. 'Not where my boys are.' She glared at her husband with a look of such hatred Seb thought he could feel the heat even from where he was sitting. The boys in the doorway shifted uncomfortably. Crossan laughed.

'Well you never know,' he chuckled, as if oblivious to his wife's venomous glare. 'Angel's getting on now, she's growing up. At this rate of going she'll be the first to sprog up.' He placed the glass on the draining board and looked Seb up and down. Seb looked away.

'Always the chance she'll go for Bowman's boy I suppose,' he said. 'He'd be right up her street, those glossy boyband looks of his. Shame he already has a kid, might be a bit off putting. Mind you, I'm sure the inheritance'd more than make up for it.' Mrs Crossan stepped back. 'I did not,' she snarled, 'spend all my money sending my daughter to the best schools, the best therapists, so she could give up her life with scum like that.' Silence fell. Seb glanced up. Crossan met his wife's gaze levelly.

'Your money?' He said. Seb watched. 'Your money?' Ciara Crossan's eyes flickered. Crossan turned back to Seb.

'All set?' He said brightly. Seb shrugged. 'Well on your clappers then. Mike'll take you and the others down to the garage. Rob, you can bring him down. I don't need both of you watching while I shower.'

One of the boys stepped forward. Seb rose. He followed the boy towards the door.

'Don't you ever, ever bring him near me again,' Ciara Crossan hissed behind him.

'Here here,' he heard Crossan soothing as they headed down the stairs. 'Pills darling, pills.'

Below the loft level of the house, the warehouse was just that. Seb kept an eye out for Olly as they passed through, past crates and boxes, four boys playing a video game in the corner, a makeshift gym, two more boys lifting weights there. But no Olly. Outside, Mike stood smoking a cigarette beside a van.

'Bout fucking time,' he said as Seb and Rob approached, dropping his cigarette on the ground. 'Get in the van.'

Seb obeyed. He squeezed into the front of the van, beside three other boys. They acknowledged him with grunts and nods. He didn't respond. They travelled in silence. This wasn't a part of town Seb knew well, a strange combination of industry and smart, edgy residences.

They pulled into the forecourt of Clarke's garage. The other boys sprang from the van. Seb climbed out slowly, the sense of dread weighing down his stomach like a heavy meal. Clarke walked out of the office, his face twisted in a tight-lipped scowl.

'You're a fucker,' he greeted Mike.

'Language,' Mike chided. 'There are children present.' Clarke glanced over them. Seb looked away, avoiding his gaze.

'Yes,' Clarke growled. 'Children. How old are they all?'

'Old enough to do whatever they're told,' Mike replied dismissively. Clarke shook his head. Seb could tell he was angry, dying to unleash his fury on the man before him, but he didn't. Instead he looked at Seb and said, 'Where's your fucking overalls?'

Seb shrugged. He hadn't known they would be coming here, and nobody had told him to bring any.

'Well go and bloody get some.'

Seb nodded. Keeping his head down he sidled away from the group, into the office, where a small cupboard harboured spare overalls, gloves and boots. As he changed he heard Clarke's voice, carrying through the open door of the prefab.

'This is a joke this is. A fucking joke.'

'You're the one with the debt to pay,' Mike's voice followed. 'And look at it this way, you're still saving a few bob.'

Seb stepped out, the heavy, too-big boots clomping on his feet. Clarke glanced at him. He trudged down, taking a place beside one of the other boys. Clarke looked him up and down, shaking his head. Seb shoved his hands into the pockets of his overalls, closing around a handful of change.

'Are they qualified?' He sighed.

'These two are, city and guilds certified, ain't ya boys?'

Two of the boys murmured their confirmation. Clarke looked them up and down disbelievingly.

'They look about twelve,' he said.

'They're twenty,' Mike replied. Clarke didn't look convinced.

'And you?' He said to the third boy.

'Panel beating and painting,' Mike said.

Clarke closed his eyes. He opened them again with a sigh. 'Right,' he said. 'Right.'

'Well, I'll leave you to it then. Call if you need anything boys.'

Clarke nodded, looking resigned. Mike retreated to the van. Clarke surveyed the boys before him with a sigh. 'Right,' he repeated. 'You two,' he addressed the two older boys. 'I need to have a chat with you. That's my office in there, go and wait for me.'

Without a word the two boys turned and traipsed towards the office. 'You two,' he said slowly to Seb and the remaining boy. 'I suppose I have a couple of things for you to do. Follow me.'

They followed Clarke, trailing after him into one of the garages. Before them, Jessica Carswell's Aston stood, shining and magnificent in the centre of the garage. Seb's heart skipped. The boy beside him let out a low whistle. Clarke glanced at them.

'Just finished,' he said, looking at Seb. 'Just as well, as I don't know what standard this lot are up to.'

He turned, heading towards the back of the garage. Seb felt a pang in his chest as they passed the Aston. He pictured himself driving it, Jessica in the passenger seat, with sunglasses and red lipstick.

'Here.' Clarke stopped. The two boys stopped behind him. Before them stood a large, red Suzuki V Strom 650.

'I'll leave her to you to disassemble,' Clarke said. 'You can start fixing up minor things if you can. Seb, you can show – what's your name anyway?'

'Damian,' the boy said.

'You can show Damian, get him to help you, tell him what you're doing, show him. And when you're done, come and find me.'

Without another word, Clarke turned on his heel and strode off. The two boys looked at each other. Seb wondered what brought Damian here; was it the same fear that had brought him, or did this boy want to be here, had he volunteered, jumped at the chance to be involved with somebody like Crossan? To many of the boys there was status and protection to be gained, Seb knew; he also knew the price of both would be high.

He thought about it as they set to work, the strange feeling of not being the rookie in the garage unable to lift the heavy weight in his stomach. He wondered what Olly was doing, what Olly's attitude to it would be. He came across as confident, as arrogant, full of swagger and wanting to be in with the big boys, but Seb knew Olly wasn't able for it, and he reckoned the older boy knew it himself, deep down. They worked without chat, the only words spoken between the two boys Seb's instructions, and the other boy's occasional questions. Seb found he slipped easily back into the rhythm of the work, able to lose himself in the metal and machine. He was glad to be doing something that felt so natural to him, second nature almost, and yet – yet the satisfaction had gone from it. When they were done, Seb surveyed the bike, willing the wave of satisfaction to wash over him, but none came. He sighed and headed towards Clarke's office, Damian in tow. In the kitchen the other two boys pored over a book, their heads bent together, pointing and muttering to each other. Clarke sat at his desk, talking quietly into a phone. On sight of Seb he made hurried excuses and hung up.

'Are you done?' He said. Seb nodded. Clarke stood up. 'You can take lunch,' he said to Damian. 'You,' he nodded at Seb. 'Come here.'

Seb followed him out of the prefab, into the further garage. Two cars sat in here, a Ford Mondeo, a 1968 Mini 1000 and –

'My bike.' Seb eyed the Yamaha, his eyes reflected in the glistening shock of the metallic body.

'Yeah. She's yours again. Whoop-di-doo hey.' Seb looked away, shaking his head.

'Oh don't you fucking give me some sort of moral, I-can't-accept-this guff,' Clarke said irritably. 'It's not going to make a jot of difference to me, or to my business and it's sure as hell not going to make a difference to the others now, is it?'

Seb swallowed. He looked up at Clarke, and asked the question that had been teetering on the edge of his tongue all morning.

'Where are they?'

'How the hell would I know? Queuing at the dole office probably.' Clarke shook his head bitterly. 'What have you got yourself into Seb?' He said, looking the boy right in the eye. Seb looked back. Clarke looked away with a sigh. He shook his head and turned to the bike, running a hand along the handlebars.

'Why – why are we here?' Seb asked. Clarke glanced at him.

'Because,' he said, 'I was young and stupid once. Just like you.'

Seb waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't. After a few minutes of what Seb thought was the longest silence of his life, Clarke stood back, chucking the keys towards him. Seb caught them, stumbling as he did so.

'I'm closing up early,' he said. 'Alice is going into hospital this afternoon. C-section.'

Seb stared at the keys in his hands. 'But,' he said. 'I don't – I don't have a licence.'

Clarke sighed. 'D'you know what?' He said, heading towards the door. 'I honestly couldn't give a damn anymore.' Seb watched him go. He turned back to the bike. He didn't want it now. He had laboured over her, crafted her, made her into the delight she was and now – now she was tainted. Now she had Paul Crossan's sticky hands all over her, she was a bribe, a pawn. But it wasn't the bike's fault, he reasoned. He still wanted her. She was beautiful, the curve of her seat, the gleam of the metal, the way she had purred beneath him, become part of him. He laid the keys down on the seat. He couldn't take her. He already had Crossan leaning on him; he didn't want to give the man any further leverage against him.

He walked out of the garage, trailing across the yard to the office. The ground underneath was slick and crunchy with snow and salt, the snow no longer white but a faded brownish yellow, like an old photograph. In the kitchen the two older boys were sitting in silence, drinking mugs of hot soup. Seb poured himself a drink from the tap and sat, clutching it between his hands to warm the water before he drank it. Outside, he saw Damian dragging snow tyres from one garage to the other. Inside, none of the boys spoke. Seb wondered if it was because none of them cared, or none of them dared. Clarke glanced around the door, peering in at them.

'Oh for fuck's sake, get out of here,' he said. The boys rose to their feet. 'And I'm closed tomorrow,' he added as they traipsed past him out of the door. 'You can tell your boss that. I'm – my wife's having a baby.'

Seb was the last out. Clarke watched him as he passed.

'That car's going up for auction next week,' he said. 'Half a million she could go for.'

Seb glanced at the car, gleaming sleekly in the garage. Half a million pounds. He couldn't even begin to imagine such an amount of money. He lowered his head, stepping out into the cold. The other boys waited on the tarmac outside, one of them on the phone. Seb walked past, not even casting them a glance.

'Where are you going?' One of them called, but Seb kept walking. At the shop he tried to use the handful of change in his overalls to buy a bottle of wine, but the man behind the till looked him up and down and asked for ID, and Seb traipsed off again, his stomach rumbling with hunger. He thought for a moment of going to Jessica's house, but she might not be there. She would probably be at the gallery.

He trudged home, still in his grease stained overalls, which were too big and smelled of someone else. Olly sat on the sofa, staring blankly at the television. He barely seemed to notice Seb's arrival. Seb asked him what Crossan was making him do. Olly shrugged and muttered something Seb couldn't make out. Seb asked him where Emily was. Olly jerked his head towards the hall. Seb turned, heading towards Dolly's room.

'E offered to av er whenever ah want,' Olly said suddenly. Seb stopped. 'He as a nanny like, for is kids. Day time, night time...'

Seb waited. Olly looked at him, taking a swig from the bottle of lager he clutched in both hands. He swallowed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 'Ah shouldn't though, should I?' He looked up at Seb, begging for his answer. Seb shook his head. Olly looked relieved. He turned back to the television. 'Ah knew it,' he said. 'Ah knew it.'

Seb took off his boots and overalls and climbed into bed. Emily lay beside him in the cot, fast asleep under rainbows and stars. He curled up as tight as he could, wrapping the duvet around him, and tried to sleep.

*

Seb woke later to thumping dubstep, heavy basslines pounding at his door and walls. He rose, rubbing his eyes, and glanced about the room. The cot was empty. He shivered and plucked a hoodie from the floor, pulling it on as quickly as he could. It was damp and smelled like beer. He wondered if he had money for the launderette. Olly might. They could all do with bringing some stuff, he thought. He opened the door, blasted suddenly by noise and music. He followed it, through a fug of smoke to the kitchen. The smoke caught his lungs, making him cough. The light overhead, stark and bright, shone down on the cramped kitchen, which was small enough when it wasn't jammed with people. Seb glanced around, taking in the sight before him. Olly sat at the kitchen table, a joint dangling from his mouth, tossing small plastic bags into a pile before him.

'Four, five, six,' he said, pulling the joint from his mouth. He grinned at the boy in front of him. 'Now fook off.' The boy gathered up the bags and marched off, shoving Seb as he passed. Seb looked around. Emily was nowhere to be seen. Seb counted seven boys in the kitchen, apart from himself and Olly. They all looked young, younger than him, younger than Olly. Olly looked up, catching sight of Seb standing in the doorway. He grinned.

'Seb lad,' he cried. 'You slept like a fooken babe y'did. Lucky for some eh?' He looked far more cheerful than earlier. Seb stepped in, glancing at the kids that surrounded the table.

'What are you doing?' He asked, already knowing the answer.

'I told ya,' Olly said, tossing another bag across the table towards another kid. 'Logistics an distribution. Speed,' he reached into his pocket and took out a tightly wrapped bundle of something. 'Weed - and fuck off loads of greed. And a few other things thrown in,' he added. Seb stared at the small pile on the table in front of Olly. The boys took their goods, some pocketing them immediately, one or two opening them to inspect their purchases. Seb felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.

'No.' He shook his head. 'No fucking way Olly.'

'Yes way,' Olly said, tucking a handful of bags back into his pocket.

'No. You – you can't. Not here. This is – this is Norman's turf.'

'An these are Norman's customers,' Olly shrugged. 'Norman's gone. An e ent comin back.' He waved a hand. 'Free market economics at its finest.' Seb mouthed wordlessly, searching for what he wanted to say.

'Right you lot, fook off,' Olly said. The kids, muttering to each other, stuffed their goods into their pockets and traipsed off slowly. Seb and Olly watched them go. Seb turned back to the older boy.

'They know where you live now,' he said. 'They could tell the cops.' A frown flashed across Olly's face, as if the thought hadn't occurred to him, but it was only a flash. He took his joint back up with a shrug.

'They can't touch me,' he said confidently. Seb thought he could punch him. He felt the urge to do it rushing through him. He saw Olly's head smacking against the table, his nose cracking open as it broke, the blood and the teeth all over the kitchen table and the floor and then Emily cried, a loud, piercing scream, and Seb ran. He flew down the stairs, clambering over the hallway junk into the night. It was snowing again. Everything would freeze. He would freeze. But he didn't care. He set off at a run, as fast he could go down the gravelly streets, past the colourful, spray painted fronts of the businesses, an alleyway that smelled of vomit and piss. He ducked under the chains of the park gate, which were useless anyway he thought, as most people could climb the gate at a run no problem. The park was quiet. There were no gangs of teenagers this time, making flamethrowers from aerosols and groping each other behind the playhouse. It was too cold, even for them. Seb walked, trying his best to clear his head. He scooped up a handful of snow, pressing it against his cheek. It was cold, wonderfully cold against his face. His fingers burned but he embraced the pain, willing it to hurt more. He pressed it together in his hands so it compacted like a snowball and held it until his fingers no longer burned, until he couldn't feel them anymore, and he dropped it, watching it shatter as it hit the ground.

'Ooh, are you alright boyo?'

Seb spun around. A man approached him, plump and short, wrapped up warmly in gloves and scarves. He had a round, over large face and glasses and Seb could see he was unshaven, but he didn't look like one of the park's homeless. He approached slowly, his feet crunching on the snow.

'Are you lonely tonight too?'

Seb stepped back. The man kept coming. 'I'm lonely,' he continued. 'I was hoping I'd find some...company.'

He reached out, slipping an arm about Seb's shoulders. Seb flipped. He lashed out, driving his fist into the man's face. There was a loud crack, the glasses splitting on the man's nose. Seb hit him again, driving the glass into his face. The man cried out and doubled over, raising his arms to shield his face. Seb raised his knee, plunging it into the man's gut. The man cried out again, staggering backwards. Seb rained blows upon him, forcing him to his knees. He sobbed and begged, curling into a ball, but Seb couldn't hear, didn't care. He kicked and stamped, unable to get the power he would have liked in the snow. The man whimpered, covering his head as the boy's boots drove into his ribs, stomach, back. Blood spread out along the snow like a bomb.

'Please,' the man whimpered. 'I can't see, I can't see.'

Seb stood back, his breath coming in heavy, jagged gasps. The man lowered his arms hesitantly. His face was barely visible, shards of broken glass embedded in his flesh, glittering through the blood. Seb gave him one last kick, right in the gut, and fled.

19

The weeks passed by slowly, November melting into December. The snow came and went and came again, and this time it fell thick and stayed, and the country fell into disarray. Seb listened to the news reports of car crashes and airport closures, of closed schools and snowed in grandmothers. Work at Clarke's was devoid of pleasure or even pay, though they were assured they would be, soon. Christmas crept closer and with it Seb's seventeenth birthday, though he thought little of it. Melanie Trench kept the pub open and from it Olly distributed his wares on behalf of Crossan. One day, on his way home from bringing Emily to a check up, he was threatened by members of a rival gang and that night the first fatal shootings occurred. Seb knew Olly was right, there would be war over Norman's turf, and he could only hope Crossan would be the victor. Olly consumed his share of the goods he passed on to kids and when Angel Crossan returned home early from university Olly started sleeping with her, leaving Seb to pick out the used condoms and underwear from the bed every night before he went to sleep. He saw Jessica a few times more, for photographs, when she wasn't busy preparing for the gallery opening, and though Seb tried, she would go no further than kissing him. Still, those kisses were what he lived for and with them, he reckoned he could put up with everything else, the cold weather, the joyless work, the fear that something might happen, to him or to Olly, or worst of all to Emily or Jessica. He could stomach the uncertainty of everything and the lack of Norman's presence, the fourteen year old girl who spent mornings crying at their front door, her arms and legs a bloody spider web of collapsed veins and the impossibly skinny, bronzed limbs of the stupidly named Angel, who spent the evenings sprawled around the flat in only boy shorts and Olly's cardigans, seemingly oblivious to the cold, billowing smoke and lying smoothly to her father on the phone. Seb kept his head down and got on with things, as he always had. Crossan gave him a fake licence, with an older date of birth, but all Seb used it for was buying drink. Seb took care of Emily in the evenings, bridling at the thought of Angel doing it during the day. He drank cheap vodka and cheaper wine and thought only of Jessica, and for once, he thought, for the first time, he had a future, and it though it wasn't perfect, it didn't seem all that bad.

*

Seb rose early on the morning of the 13th. The snow had settled outside and the windows of the flat glittered with ice. He made his way to the bathroom, clenching his teeth against the cold. The water in the loo was frozen. He lifted the seat, feeling a thrill of satisfaction as his urine hit the ice, steam wafting from the bowl as he peed. When he was done he made his way to the kitchen. Olly sat at the table, head bent over a football magazine. He glanced up as Seb entered. Seb retrieved bread from the cupboard and began to make a sandwich. Despite the cold, he wasn't hungry, but he thought he'd better make something anyway.

'There's no water,' Olly said crossly. Seb ignored him. He was used to Olly being cranky in the mornings, especially if Emily woke him particularly early. 'An there's no heating either, an no electricity. When fook d'you get paid?' Seb didn't answer.

'Ah mean ow my supposed to keep a baby elthy in this state?' He continued. 'An keep a girl appy, when ahv t'bring er to this fooken shit ole. No electricity is just a fooken joke! An no heatin? It's minus fooken eight outside!'

'Well maybe you could pay for some oil and the fucking grid connection then,' Seb snapped. 'As you're turning the place into a crack den.'

Olly's eyes widened. 'Wh – jeez Seb, arsh tones there.'

Seb spun around. 'You're using my flat to sell drugs to kids! Use some of that fucking money to pay for the heating.' Olly looked away. 'Ah don av any money,' he said. 'An me dad won't send me any, e wants t'make me work.'

'What, you're just handing out drugs for free are you?' Seb sneered. Olly didn't answer. Seb felt his stomach squish.

'Oh for fuck's sake Olly,' he whispered.

'This is business!' Olly cried. 'This is ow it works!'

Seb shook his head. 'What about – what about –' He motioned towards the bedroom. Olly shrugged. 'No one'd urt er. They'd be too fooken scared. Everyone knows what appened to blokes oo killed Jimmy Crossan, they'd never go near Frank Bowman's grandkid.'

Seb didn't know what to say. He knew there was a word he wanted to say to Olly, to tell him what he was, but he'd never been very good with words. All he could do was shake his head and say quietly, 'You don't know anything.'

Olly's face hardened. 'Oh yeah, cause you're such a fooken gangster.'

Seb felt anger rise in him again. All the things Olly had had in life, every opportunity, an innocent baby – and he wanted this. Everything Seb had strived for, against - Olly had dragged upon them. He could have anything, everything, and he chose this. Something in him flipped.

'You're clever,' he shouted. 'And you're rich. You could fucking do something! You could – could - go to university, you could get a real job and make loads of money without any of this shit and you could take Emily away and bring her up in a safe place and give her a real fucking life with real, proper people and give her all the things she deserves, cause she hasn't done anything wrong and she doesn't deserve all the shit you're going to land her in just so you can tell yourself you're a hard man. Well you're not, you're not at all, cause if you were you'd be hard enough to fuck off away from all of this, you're not hard at all Olly, you're an idiot and she's the one who's going to pay!'

Olly gawped. Seb chucked the knife into the sink and stuffed the sandwich into his hoodie pocket. Olly stared wordlessly after him as he stormed from the room. He pulled on his overalls, glancing at the sleeping baby in the cot. For a moment he thought – he thought about taking her, scooping her up and running. But he didn't. He knew it was more than his life's worth and besides, looking after a baby was hard work. And on top of all of that, the gut wrenching truth of it all was that whatever he did, Olly and his dad would always be able to give her a better life than anything he could ever achieve. He stamped his boots, checking the sturdiness of his laces. He wasn't going to wait around for Mike or anyone today, he thought, pulling his hood up. He would go to work, but he was doing it his way.

He left, making his way as quickly as he could along the slippery pavement. Outside the pub two men heaved on the back of a car, trying their best to make it budge. The pub was closed. Seb wondered how long you had to be missing before they presumed you were dead. What if they never did? Where would that leave Mel? Where would that leave him? He pulled his sleeves over his hands, sheltering them from the cold. Around him people tried their best not to slip, hidden under scarves and hats and large coats. He made his way towards Clarke's garage, daring to take the short route this time. When he arrived the gates were closed; Clarke was nowhere to be seen. He leaned against the wall, peering into the garage. Maybe Clarke would let him go to the auction the Aston would be at, he thought hopefully. He'd never been to one before. He'd always longed to go to one. Maybe Jessica would bring him. His gut convulsed, as it always did when he thought of her. Her hair, her lips, her laugh. They way she held him, the things she knew, the words she used, the way she chewed her lip as she concentrated, the way she giggled and drank and sang and danced; most of all, the way she cared.

His phone rang suddenly. He jumped and reached for his pocket. The number flashing on the screen had no name. He answered it cautiously.

'Where the fuck are you?' An angry voice said. Mike.

'I'm at Clarke's,' Seb replied.

'Didn't you get the text?'

Seb didn't answer.

'Oh for fuck's sake, he's not opening today. Something to do with his kid. Wait there, I'll come and get you.' He was about to leave when Mike called again.

'Wait. There.'

Two words; no hello, no goodbye. It was more than a command, it was a threat, and Seb knew it. He waited in the cold, watching his breath form clouds around him. When Mike arrived his fingers were numb, and he was almost thankful to climb into the car beside him.

Outside the warehouse, the same boy was waiting. Seb let himself be patted down and ushered in, though what was left of the wine was confiscated.

Crossan was in a downstairs room, surrounded by his boys. The room was festooned with decorations, twinkling tinsel and handmade stockings.

'Seb,' Crossan greeted, 'take a seat.'

Seb glanced around. There was nowhere to sit.

'Eddie,' Crossan said sharply, 'give him your seat.'

A boy to Crossan's right jumped from his chair as if it had caught fire. Seb glanced at Crossan. Crossan looked back at him. Seb made his way to the chair wordlessly.

'Very good,' Crossan said when he was seated. 'Now we can continue.'

'Why am I here?' Seb asked. He felt every pair of eyes in the room turn on him, but he didn't care.

Crossan leaned towards him across the table. 'You are here,' he said quietly, 'because you work for me.' He tilted his head, letting the thought sink in for a moment. 'Don't you?'

Seb nodded reluctantly.

'Good. Anymore questions before we begin?' Crossan looked at him. Seb shook his head. 'Good.' He sat back, rearranging the papers on the table in front of him. 'Because there's work to be done.'

Seb glanced at the papers on the table. There was something familiar about them; where had he seen them before?

'Now this is a floor plan of the house,' Mike said, passing a piece of paper to two boys the other end of the table. 'Ignore the basement, it's just a darkroom. For developing photos,' he added, for the boys who looked nonplussed. 'The important stuff is likely to be on the ground and first floor rooms of the house.'

'Is it, Seb?' Crossan directed these words towards him. Seb looked up, confused. A hint of a smile played across his face. Seb felt uneasy.

'Ms Carswell,' he said slowly. 'Nice lady, isn't she?'

Seb felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.

'Very nice to my Seb here,' he said to the rest of the room. 'Looks after him good and proper, doesn't she Seb?'

Seb clenched his fists under the table.

'He's been in her house a few times, he would know his way about, wouldn't you?'

'You're going to rob her.' Seb's voice was a whisper. Crossan laughed.

'No,' he said, 'no, we are not going to rob her at all. Are we boys?'

There was a general snigger around the table.

Seb was confused. 'Then what – why...?'

'Go on, tell us where the loot is,' one of the boys said. The others laughed. Seb felt sick.

'You are going to rob her,' he said.

'Semantics, boy,' Crossan said, waving a hand. 'Subtle distinctions and differences in meaning – and result. Lucky for our Seb he's never been in enough trouble with the Old Bill to have to know about them. Not like you stinking lot, eh boys?'

The boys about the table murmured.

'We might be relieving Mrs Carswell of some of her belongings,' Crossan continued. 'But I'm sure you'd agree she has far too many? As it is, she's well capable of covering the cost.'

'You can't,' Seb whispered. 'Don't.'

Crossan leaned towards him. 'I can,' he whispered back. 'And I will.'

Seb's arms ached. He clenched his fists tighter.

'I won't let you.'

Crossan laughed. 'What are you going to do? Call the police? Tell her ladyship?'

The boys laughed. Seb struggled. He could do those things - but no, he couldn't, and he knew it. His stomach churned.

'I won't be involved,' he whispered.

Crossan sat back with a smile. 'You don't have to be. You won't be at all.'

Seb frowned. 'Then - then why - why are you showing me this?'

He glanced at the table, the maps and photographs, some of which showed Jessica herself. He felt ill.

'Well,' Crossan said cheerily, 'you're one of my boys, not fair to leave you out of the loop, is it?'

Seb looked at him. Crossan looked back. It was a test. It was a test, and Seb knew it.

'When?' He said.

'Oh, you'll figure out when. I'm a bit peckish, is anyone else a bit peckish? Eddie run and fetch some biscuits, good boy.'

The boy who had given Seb his seat scurried out of the door.

'I want to go home,' Seb said. He had seen enough, he thought; he had seen what Crossan had wanted him to see, and that was more than enough.

'Alright,' Crossan nodded. 'Billy'll take you.'

The boys exchanged glances. Seb ignored them.

'I'll walk,' he said, getting to his feet.

Crossan laughed. 'Oh no you will not,' he said. 'Nobody walks out of here. Billy.'

Billy the Brute, as Olly had nicknamed him, rose. Seb knew there was no point arguing. He followed Billy into the yard. His head buzzed, ears rang. He couldn't think straight. He wanted to go to the hill park, to drink and think and freeze in the freshly fallen snow.

Billy dropped him around the corner from the pub. Seb walked casually around the corner, to the front door. He glanced about. There was no one around. He left, hurrying through the snow. In the supermarket he slipped a bottle of wine inside his overalls, using the change to purchase the biggest newspaper he could find. In the hill park he cleared himself a spot under the tree at the top of hill, the side facing Jessica's house. He tore the newspaper into shreds, stuffing it in balls inside his overalls. The park wasn't empty; he was surprised. Huddling up as tightly as he could he watched the kids below him, screaming and laughing as they hurled snowballs and chased each other with fistfuls of ice. They were probably about his age, he reckoned, bunking off school. When they got tired they flopped onto the snow, passing around a bottle of something, singing Christmas songs at the top of their voices. Seb ate his sandwich slowly and watched them roll large balls of snow, getting bigger and bigger until it took three of them to lift it. His phone rang again. He debated whether to answer it. He didn't. When the sun was high in the sky, bright but devoid of warmth, the kids left, cold and bored. Seb opened the wine, glad of the sharp, wincing taste.

He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, wallet-sized picture Jessica had given him. It was a man, practically naked, his decency protected by only the flimsiest looking of cloths. Seb liked it because the man was covered in arrows, sticking at gruesome angles from his limbs and torso, blood trailing down his pale flesh. His face was twisted in pain, crying out from the miniature painting. She had given it to him after she'd discovered he was a Catholic, though Seb didn't believe in God or Hell or saints either for that matter. His mother had. Much good they'd done her.

'Saint Sebastian,' Jessica had said when she'd given it to him. 'Patron saint of athletes and archers. Very popular figure in art. Protects against pestilence apparently.' Seb had no idea what pestilence was, or if he needed protection against it, but she had given it to him, as a gift, and he hadn't let it go since. He liked it because the picture was cool, and because Jessica had given it to him. He hadn't known there was a saint with the same name as him.

'Definitely the most handsome one,' Jessica had said, kissing his ear as she did so. He remembered that kiss now, a shiver running down his back that this time had nothing to do with the snow. What was Crossan going to do? What if he broke when she was there? How was he, Seb, going to protect her? He propped Saint Sebastian on his knee. He looked at the tortured face, the grey, blank eyes. Please help me. Please.

He took a swing from the bottle, waiting for the saint's response. They were supposed to do miracles right? He looked up at the sky. Come on, he challenged, if you're there, if you're real – prove it. He looked back at the picture.

'Prove it,' he said aloud. Tell me what I have to do to stop him. The saint stared back, his mouth still and twisted.

'I knew it was bullshit,' he muttered, shoving the picture back inside his overalls.

He drained the rest of the bottle, keeping an eye on Jessica's house, but darkness fell and there was no movement there and no gods or saints came to bring him comfort or advice. There was only snow, fluttering onto his overalls and eyelashes and people walking through the park who cast him funny looks and a dog that clambered over him and tried to sniff his crotch.

Olly. He would ask Olly what to do. So the boy's advice hadn't been stellar in the past, but what other choice did he have? Olly would have an idea. Maybe even his dad could help, though Seb rather doubted it, as he was "on Crossan's side" as Olly had said. But what else could he do? Resigned, he hauled himself to his feet and set off out of the hill park.

He made his way home, taking in the sights and smells of the world readying itself for Christmas. He felt a stir in his gut. This could have been the best Christmas ever, he thought. He was going to get Jessica a present, something really lovely and expensive like her, but now - now it would be tainted, by Crossan and his filthy games. He let himself into the flat. It was empty; Olly must be flogging his wares in the pub. He undressed and showered as quickly as he could, spending as little time under the water as possible. When he was done he dressed just as quickly, rubbing his hair dry with his towel, and headed downstairs to the pub. It was a busy enough night, being Thursday, and there was a jovial buzz in the pub. Someone had put up tinsel and a Christmas tree and the TV in the corner played a string of festive songs.

'Watch the mistletoe,' Jamal said as Seb leaned across the bar. He glanced up at the plant dangling above his head.

'Someone better give him a kiss lads,' Paddy Whyte belched.

'Fuck off.' Seb turned to Jamal. 'Where's Olly?' He said. Jamal shrugged. 'Dunno. Did he not tell you?'

Seb frowned. 'Tell me what?'

'Where he was going?'

Seb shrugged. 'I've been out all day. I haven't seen him.'

Jamal's face seemed to register some level of understanding. 'Oooh,' he said, drawing the word out. 'Oooh, OK. Well, he left you this.' He reached in behind the till, drawing out an envelope with Seb's name scrawled on the front. Seb tore it open. The queen peered up at him, staring from wads of fifties. He pulled out the letter inside.

'Need someone to read it for ya lad?' Paddy Whyte chuckled. Seb gave him a proper glare this time.

'Fuck off,' he snapped. He looked at Jamal. Jamal shrugged. He glanced at the piece of paper, Olly's slanted handwriting filling line after line, blurring before his eyes. A strange, sickening feeling began to replace the warm, fuzzy one that alcohol and the festive atmosphere had brought on. He crumpled up the paper, shoved it into his pocket, and fled.

20

Seb lad

I'm writing this now as I've just packed up and I'm all ready to go. I'm really, really sorry I'm not there to say bye to you but I think I've got to go now, while I've got the head and the balls for it, if you know what I mean. See, you got me thinking earlier after you left, about everything. You're right. You're more right than I think you even know. I've been stupid, and I know it. I might not like it all the time, but Emily is my life and if anything happened to her I don't know what I'd do. And I suppose I shouldn't let anything happen to me either so. As I write this now she's sitting on the floor playing with your Mr Muffles. She fucking loves that cat. I think she's going to miss you. Fuck it, I'm going to miss you. But we won't be gone long! I got paid this morning, Mike dropped over a nice fat envelope with a few quid in it. I've taken half and left the rest for you. You've done a lot for me and I owe you, cover my share of the electricity and maybe you can put some bloody heating on for once. I plan to get away, have it out with me dad. This grand won't get me far but if I'm canny I can make it last a few weeks and by then I'll be back in dad's good books and I'm going to do just what you said, I'm going to go back to school and I'm going to go studying English and I'll be back down this way and we can be right lads again when I'm a wanky student. I've had a wicked time with you lad. I really appreciate all you've done, putting up with me and all like. I'll see you again soon hopefully, once everything's settled down. I consider you a proper mate you know. I'll give you call before Xmas to let you know how everything's going, and you can come and spend it up at mine, you deserve to get away, we can have a booze tour of the north! Anyway my arm is starting to hurt from all this writing now and Emily's whingeing for summat so I'll leave off here and apologise again, I really am sorry I didn't stay to say goodbye in person, but I was afraid something would happen in the next few hours and I'd chicken out and not go. Keep the stuff I've left behind, sell it if you want, bit of cash. Emily says bye bye too. In those immortal words – take it easy man. This dude abides.

Your mate

Olly

Jessica looked up, blinking. Seb slumped on the sofa, hands plunged into the pockets of his hoodie, the hood raised over his head.

'Oh Seb,' she whispered. He didn't look at her, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on his knees. 'Oh Seb I – I didn't know...' She trailed off. Seb wasn't paying attention anyway. Olly was gone. Olly had left him, just like everyone else. He should have known, he should have expected this. He had. He had, he told himself. But still, he'd gotten used to the boy, and now he was gone. It left a weird feeling in his stomach, it was a strange, unnatural feeling he didn't like, and didn't want to feel.

'Read it again,' he said dully. Jessica swallowed.

'Are you – are you sure?'

He nodded. She bent her head over the letter and began reading it again. The second reading didn't make him feel any better than the first.

'Oh honey...'

He scowled, his jeans feeling the full force of his glare. Jessica rose, slipping onto the seat beside him.

'We've failed you, haven't we?' She sounded as if she were about to cry. 'Everybody's fucking failed you.'

Seb glanced at her, not really sure what she meant. She reached out and slipped an arm about his shoulders, pulling him into her. She embraced him fully with both arms. Seb stiffened. He was already embarrassed enough, he thought, he wasn't going to make it worse now by looking like he cared. She kissed the top of his head gently, stroking the back of his neck with one hand. He felt the hairs there rise, tingling down his spine. He relented a little, letting his body relax.

'I don't know what to say,' Jessica murmured. Her chest rose and fell as she spoke, her skin gleaming in the light overhead. Seb lay his face on it gently, wondering if she'd notice.

'We've all failed you,' she said again, though Seb had a feeling she was talking more to herself. 'The whole system, everybody – failed.'

She shook her head, her breasts bouncing gently against Seb's face. He said nothing, concentrating on her body and the closeness of her boobs to his face.

She placed a hand under his chin, tilting his face upwards. She ran a hand across his cheek and kissed the other one, pressing her face against his. Her cheek was warm and flushed against his cold one.

He stumbled up the steps behind her. His head swam, his thoughts crashing and screeching as they collided into one another. He pulled her back, kissing her softly. Jessica was done with softness, however, and the kisses she returned were rapid, urgent, catching Seb's breath in a whirlwind of her own.

Seb couldn't really remember exactly what happened next - it was all a bit of a blur -but the next thing he knew he had one of Jessica's legs over his shoulders, the other round his waist, thrusting exactly how she told him to. He had thought that his head would spin, that it would be hazy and amazing and surreal, but when it came to it, he was surprised to find his head clear, his actions obedient, his attitude pragmatic. And that made it all the better. It wasn't the drunken slur he'd sort of imagined, the blind thrusting and groans, it required effort and thought and thinking about it made it more...real.

'That's it,' Jessica said. 'That's - a bit harder. Harder Seb. Harder.'

He couldn't get any harder, he thought. He pulled her other leg up over her shoulder and thrust forcefully. She thrust back, tilting her head back, her hair hanging like silk behind her, her nipples thrust towards him. She groaned and dropped her legs suddenly. Relief washed through his neck and shoulders. She pulled him tighter, wrapping her legs about his waist. He leaned over her, kissing her hungrily, hard. Her nails dug into his back, her hips thrusting upwards and he gasped and groaned.

He kept going, but she put a hand on his chest and pulled back.

'Stop,' she whispered.

He did, withdrawing slowly. She lowered her legs, pulling him towards her. He lay down, catching his breath. Her skin was damp and sticky against his, the smell of sweat and perfume mingling on his flesh and hair. She wriggled down, pulling the duvet over them, and snuggled into his chest with a sigh. Seb slipped an arm around her shoulders, leaving the duvet off his torso to cool his chest. He felt happy. Happy and reckless.

'I love you,' he said, his tone defying her to contradict. She stroked his stomach gently and sighed, her breath a warm breeze against his chest.

'I know,' she murmured. She kissed his side softly, her lips pressing against the words inked across his ribs.

'I know.'

He pulled her up, kissed her cheek gently. She was so beautiful. So, so beautiful. He lay back, gazing at the ceiling overhead. The night time closed around them, stark and white, the windows glittering, snow sparkling, and Seb smiled. That had been the best. Birthday. Ever.

*

'Wakey waaaakey.'

Seb groaned. A hand landed on his shoulder, shaking him gently. He squeezed his eyes closed tighter. He didn't want to wake up. He'd been having the most comfortable, warm, dreamless sleep and he really didn't want to get up.

'Come on sleeping beauty. It's a busy day. Move your arse.' Seb rolled over, wincing as the sunshine blazed into his pupils. Jessica sat on the edge of the bed, already dressed. She stood up, flinging open her wardrobe doors.

'I'm going to pack up my stuff for tonight, you can help yourself to breakfast. I've left towels on the side of the bath if you want to have a shower. I have a couple of bits to do but we need to be ready to go at about eleven, so just bear that in mind. What do you think of this, I just got it the other day, Harry and I said we'd go as mods, one of his pieces relates to fashions and subcultures of the twentieth century and we decided this was our favourite, what do you think?'

She spoke so fast Seb could barely keep up. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the light. She twirled about, holding a flowy pink dress to her body. He shrugged, not sure what he was supposed to say.

'Yeah,' he said. 'Yeah it's nice, I – I like it.'

She laughed. 'Excellent. Come on then, chop chop.' She folded the dress over, stuffing it into a black holdall. Seb rose slowly, his neck and shoulders stiff and sore. He scrambled around the floor, holding the duvet over him, embarrassed. Jessica bent down, scooping his underwear from the floor, and chucked it at him.

'I won't look,' she laughed. 'I promise.'

Seb felt himself colour. He pulled his shorts on and rose, heading for the bathroom. He felt self conscious, but Jessica wasn't even paying attention, she was far too busy packing her bag. He showered leisurely, savouring the steaming hot water and the memories of the night before, eventually emerging when the water had turned cold. He brushed his teeth and dressed, making his way downstairs as Jessica bustled out of the door with what looked like two large rubbish bags.

'I've got to go feed Mrs-Hall-Next-Door's dog,' she called. 'And then I have to drop these off at the recycling centre and stop by the supermarket but I shouldn't be long, help yourself to food and drink and that, be ready to go when I get back!'

This was all said in one long breath and Seb barely caught any of it but he didn't mind. He made his way to the kitchen, grinning to himself. He made tea and toast, turning up the cheery pop song on the radio as he spooned dollops of peanut butter and jam onto his bread. It was blinding outside, the yard feet deep in snow, glaring as the sun shone through the early morning fog.

The radio switched to the news. Airports and schools were still closed and some town in Wales had run out of bread and some politician was afraid for Christmas trade. Another politician was talking about the economy and somebody else disagreed with her. A body had been found somewhere in the docks, believed to be that of a man who was reported missing three months before. There had been a stabbing in the park near the Grey Lady Inn and a fatal shooting at a petrol station near Shore Street and the police were appealing for witnesses. Good luck with that, Seb thought grimly as he tucked into his breakfast. He ate slowly and drank his tea in the sitting room, watching a cool looking actor and a man who trained ponies to act like guide dogs being interviewed on the television. Jessica returned as he was loading his dishes into the dishwasher.

'Ready to go?' She said breathlessly, checking her hair in the hall mirror. Seb sidled up beside her, slipping an arm about her waist. For once his face was bruise free, the small scar across his cheek the only blemish. He grinned, pulling her into him.

'You're beautiful,' he whispered. Jessica blushed.

'Seb, stop it.' She pushed his arm away. He pouted. She took a tube of lipstick from her bag and began to reapply it.

'It was my birthday yesterday,' he said. He wasn't sure why. He just felt maybe it would be nice if someone else would acknowledge it. Jessica paused, glancing at him in the mirror.

'Really?' She said. He nodded. 'Gosh, I didn't realise.' She twisted the lipstick down, slipping it back into her bag.

'Well, belated returns.' She smiled up at him. 'We shall have to have a few drinkies and some cake tonight to celebrate.' She reached up, planting a kiss on his cheek. 'Now come on, we've got to go.'

They travelled wordlessly in the car, but it wasn't uncomfortable or embarrassing. In fact, Seb thought, it was nice. Christmas songs played on the radio and the world around them sparkled and glittered blue and white and red and green and gold. They were travelling to the gallery, where the opening exhibition was to take place that night. It was a big old building from the outside, but inside it was starkly modern, and full of the strangest things Seb had ever seen in his life. There wasn't much for him to do at the gallery. Jessica rushed around, talking to people and making phone calls and talking to more people and Seb wandered about offering his assistance, but there didn't seem to be anybody who needed it, and he was almost grateful when he was given a large list of things to collect for lunch, though he reckoned the order must have taken up his entire brain trying to remember it all.

He sat by himself as he ate the soup and bread he had bought for himself, aware of the curious looks and whispers he was attracting, but he didn't care. He was happy. He was happy, and he knew it. His happiness doubled when Jessica tore herself away from a man who kept asking about drinks arrangements to join him.

'Chaos!' She cried, flinging herself down on the sofa Seb had taken up residence on. 'I tell you what, I can't wait to have a few drinks tonight and relax. Did you get my sandwich?' Seb passed her the sandwich and smoothie she had asked for.

'Excellent, you're such a darling.' She ripped the wrapping off almost violently. 'Omm,' she said as she took a bite. She held a hand a hand up to her mouth as she chewed. 'You must be awfully bored,' she said as she swallowed. Seb shook his head. 'Here.' She reached into her purse, pulling out a wad of cash. Seb stared. 'Take this. Get yourself some clothes for tonight.'

Seb shook his head. 'No – I can't. I have money,' he added, thinking of the thousand pounds Olly had left him.

'Well this is my birthday present to you. Go and get yourself some sharp threads for tonight. Go to one of the shops around the corner, tell them that you need an outfit for the opening tonight and they'll sort you with something. You'll look thoroughly dashing.' She smiled at him. He smiled shyly and took the money.

He'd never been shopping like this before. The shops were all sparsely furnished, full of men who looked like they knew their way around a pair of chinos and through a tailored suit, but Seb had no idea. Eventually, with more than a little trepidation, he did what Jessica had suggested and approached an assistant. To Seb's surprise, the boy was not snotty and condescending but perfectly delighted to help him, till Seb found himself, four hours later, sitting in Harry's achingly hip, achingly small maisonette, looking like a member of a boyband on his way to Brits, or so the boy in the shop had assured him. Around him, men in sharp suits and skinny ties with hair like Olly's drank gin and smoked and admired each other's clothes and in the middle of them Jessica, in her floaty pink dress and white tights, laughed and drank. Seb sat in the corner, happy to hang at the side and drink his cocktail and watch.

At 7pm everybody began filtering out of the house. Seb waited for Jessica, but she had vanished in the sea of suits and big coats and Harry was shoving a pair of sunglasses into his hand and telling him to get on the back of his scooter and not to try "any funny business, or I won't have any qualms about crashing this thing. Backwards." They descended on the gallery like a swarm of bees. Lights flashed and Seb tried to follow Harry, but he was swamped and surrounded by the other men and he kept his head down and tried to make his way inside, though he kept being dragged into photographs with people he didn't know, and when he eventually got inside he felt more than a little dazed. He could see Jessica now, surrounded by people, laughing.

'Champagne sir?'

Seb glanced around. A waiter in a black t-shirt and black jeans proffered him a tray of glasses. Seb snatched two, knocking them back in as many mouthfuls as soon as the man was gone. There were so many people. He watched as they filtered through, posing for photographs and each other, laughing and joking, inhaling the champagne and food. He would wait until Jessica was free, or came looking for him, he thought, retreating into a corner between some sort of metal construction and a table. Until then he would hide in here, and guzzle champagne till he felt happy.

'Well well well, what have we got here? A wolf in hipster's clothing?'

A voice rang from behind the big metal construction. Seb turned. Angel Crossan stood beside him, impossibly tall, improbably thin, her hip bones protruding through a gold dress no more substantial than a nightie. She stood, clutching a chute of something sparkling and green, sneering at him.

'What are you doing here?' He said sullenly. She tossed her hair with a laugh.

'That's more a question for you,' she said. 'I study art.'

Seb glanced out over the crowd, looking for Jessica. Angel stepped towards him. 'Your friend,' she said, poking his chest with a long, perfectly manicured finger. 'Left. He didn't even say goodbye.'

Seb turned back to her. 'And?' He said. Angel stopped. 'You think he'd bother to say goodbye to you?' Even as they fell from his mouth he wondered where the words were coming from. Angel's face flickered, but Seb had to hand it to her, she was quick to paper over any cracks.

'Well I wasn't expecting a sentimental seeing off,' she said haughtily. 'But he owes me.' She paused. Seb caught sight of Jessica's head, gleaming in the bright lights of the entrance hall.

'You could have sex with me.'

Seb looked back at the older girl. She stepped closer, her body pressing up against his. He felt the blood drain from his face. 'I could get you back in Daddy's good books.' Seb swallowed. He doubted that. He highly, highly doubted that. She ran a hand over his shirt, her nails raising goosebumps on his chest.

'You're not like Daddy's other men,' she murmured. Seb tried to step backwards, but there was a table in his way.

'You're...intelligent,' she continued, slipping a finger through the buttons on his stomach. She leaned forwards, her breath tickling his ear. 'And so...thin.'

Seb held his breath.

'Angel?'

Seb's stomach, which had already frozen at Angel Crossan's touch, dropped away completely. She stepped back, still grasping his shirt, and smiled.

'Daddy.'

Paul Crossan glanced past his daughter, his eyes falling on Seb. They didn't even flicker, but Seb knew he was in trouble.

'Seb, Daddy,' Angel purred. 'He works for you.'

Crossan looked Seb up and down, taking in his smart new clothes. 'I know Seb,' Crossan said coolly. 'Better than he even knows.'

Angel let go of Seb's shirt, grabbing his arm instead.

'Seb's going to be my date for the night,' she said, as if defying her father to say otherwise. 'He's going to show me around the gallery, aren't you?'

Seb didn't answer.

Crossan laughed. 'I don't think so honey,' he said. 'Seb's here as someone else's date. Isn't he?' Crossan turned to Seb. 'And a lovely lady she is too. Beautiful. And rich.'

Seb swallowed.

'And it's just as well,' Crossan continued, 'because she's a pretty lady, and pretty ladies like that need protecting. Especially on nights like this.'

Seb pulled slowly from Angel's grasp.

'You mean...' His mind worked overtime.

Crossan plucked a glass from a passing waiter and held it up, as if toasting.

'I mean nothing,' he said breezily. 'Only that it's a busy night. And Ms Carswell is a busy woman. Which is lucky for her. Wouldn't want a pretty woman sitting at home alone, would you? Not on such a...busy night.'

Crossan met Seb's face with a smirk. Seb's stomach churned.

'You're going to –' Seb began, but before he could finish Angel cut across him.

'I fucked Oliver Bowman,' she said. It was a defiant declaration, thrown down before her father, both challenging and victorious. It threw Crossan. Seb knew he had to go, now. He set off, ducking through the crowd before Crossan had time to register both Angel's blow and his departure. He made a beeline for the door, his mind racing. He was so stupid, how could he have forgotten tonight? With the gallery opening and being with Jessica, with Olly and the drugs and his job he had totally forgotten Crossan's plans, but if he hadn't, he could have put two and two together. Why else had he got the gun? He had failed. He was stupid and weak and idiotic and he had failed.

'Seb!' A hand shot out, snatching his arm. Caught off balance, Seb stumbled.

'Where are you going? There's people I want you to meet.' Jessica laughed and tossed her hair over her shoulder, pulling him towards her.

'I've –' he began.

'Sebastien Daly!' Crossan's voice carried over Jessica's shoulder. Seb's heart thundered to his stomach. Jessica glanced around. Crossan and his bodyguards approached.

'Well, fancy seeing you here,' he said.

'Seb,' Jessica said warmly. 'Who's this?'

Seb muttered something unintelligible.

'Paul is my name.' Crossan proffered his hand towards Jessica. She took it with a smile. 'Paul Crossan. Seb's been doing a little work for me here and there, bitta pocket money, eh Seb?' He grinned at the boy. Seb scowled.

'And you must be Jessica Carswell,' he said, releasing her hand. 'I'm a huge fan, I must say. I even have one or two pieces.'

Jessica giggled and said something back. Seb wasn't listening. He was watching the group around them, most of who were laughing and nodding to each other, but two nervous looking men in suits, not cool suits like Harry and his friends, but business suits, were murmuring to each other. Seb glanced around, wondering if he could get away. 'My ex husband,' Jessica was laughing. 'Are you in the law yourself?'

He could out run Crossan's louts, Seb reckoned. And there was always the chance they wouldn't want to cause a big scene and draw attention to themselves, which gave him a minute or two head start. His mind raced. If the scooters were still outside, he could get one of them. There were several dark corners around the building that would afford him the few minutes he reckoned it would take to get one going. Over Jessica's shoulder he saw a large group of people enter the building. This was his chance. He ran, sprinting for the front doors. The crowd who entered gawped and 'oohed' as he dodged around them.

'Don't slip,' someone said. Seb didn't stop. He shot into the night, hurrying for the steps. From nowhere a body stepped, blindsiding him. His foot slipped, missing the next step. Instinctively, he threw out his arms, feeling the skin peel away as he skidded down, hitting the ground with a thud that his made his bones judder. His head spun. The world was a blur around him but he knew he had to get up. He reached for the steps but missed, falling again. Footsteps clattered around him. A dress glittered and flowed like liquid gold.

'I told you not to slip.' Angel's tone was smug. Seb swayed. He was going to get sick. And he wasn't going to warn her. He doubled over, lumpy brown vomit gushing onto the steps and Angel Crossan's feet. She screamed. He was vaguely aware of other people around him. Someone took his shoulders and sat him down, but everything was rather blurry and nauseous and he didn't care anyway, because it was too late, there was nothing he could do now. He swayed as he sat, trying to force his thoughts through the fug in his brain. He thought he was saying something, but he wasn't sure what.

'I think he needs to go to hospital,' someone was saying. 'He's concussed.'

'No.' Seb shook his head. 'No – no hospital.'

'Seb?' Jessica's voice floated from somewhere behind him. He looked around, blinking. The world seemed to slide sideways in front of him.

'What on earth?' She crouched down beside him, looking him over. He grabbed her arm.

'I don't – I don't want to go to hospital,' he said. He started to rise. His limbs felt weak and shaky. Jessica rose with him, slipping an arm about his waist to support him.

'I think he'd better,' someone said. 'Just in case.'

Seb shook his head and opened his mouth to protest, but instead of words, vomit gushed again. He didn't want to go to hospital, but what did it matter? He allowed himself to be steered away by someone else, a man he thought, into somebody's car. He slumped against the window in the back seat, fighting the urge to sleep. He could hear Jessica's voice fretting, confused and upset, and the man's tones soothing her. Gradually, the world returned to normal. His ears stopped ringing and sharp edges returned, though he still felt a little sick and couldn't really be bothered to listen to what the nurse in the hospital was saying to him. He tried to argue when they said they wanted to keep him in, but Jessica said she would stay if he stayed and tiredness was beginning to overpower him and he didn't have the energy to argue anymore, and though Crossan and his plans and plots whirled about his brain, he vomited one last time and curled up into a ball, and he slept.

21

It was weird sleeping alone. That was Seb's first thought as he came around the next morning. It was weird, being warm and comfortable and alone. He stirred slowly and blinked about the room. Jessica was not there; that was his second thought. She would have gone home his third, and nausea washed over him again.

He threw back the blankets, swinging his legs around the side of the bed.

'Off so soon?'

He glanced up. A man, tall and broad and old, stepped into the room, tucking a phone into the pocket of his coat.

'Who are you?' Seb asked. The man looked him up and down.

'I could ask you the same question,' he replied.

Seb took him in slowly, trying to piece together the events of the night before.

'You're - you brought me here,' he said. The man nodded.

'I certainly did.' He came towards Seb's bed, extending a hand towards him. 'I'm John,' he said. Seb took his hand slowly. He tried to gather his thoughts. It felt like trying to squeeze jelly through a door lock.

'You're - you're Jessica's...'

'Ex husband, yes.'

'Where -' Seb swallowed. 'Where is she?'

'At the police station.'

Seb felt every organ in his body drop away. He swallowed. 'Why, what – what happened?'

He knew the answer before John even spoke.

'Her house was broken into last night. Some stuff is gone.'

Seb nodded, swallowing again as he tried to wet his mouth. John sat in the chair, watching him.

'Can I – can I go?' He asked. 'I mean – I want to see her.'

John shrugged. 'I'm sure you can go whenever you want.' He leaned casually back in the chair. 'You're a big boy aren't you?'

Seb nodded. He hesitated for a moment, waiting for the man to say something, but he didn't. He reached for his shoes and socks and pulled them on slowly, his actions and mind still a little dull. John rose with him and they walked slowly into the hall. The woman at the desk tried to protest when Seb said he was leaving, but he had no intention of staying and nobody tried to make him. They made their way out to John's car, Seb's legs still a little unsure of themselves, though he wasn't going to admit it. He shivered in the cold. Jessica had taken his cardigan and shirt when they were in the hospital and all he had was a plain white t-shirt and chinos. He felt exposed. They climbed into the car wordlessly. A talk show began on the radio as John started the car and Seb concentrated upon it, staring at the ice that frosted the windscreen.

'We'll give it a few,' John muttered, eyeing the ice as well. He pulled on a pair of thick leather gloves and sat, clutching the steering wheel. He glanced at Seb.

'So you're the kid who Jess is working with?' He said. Seb shrugged. John eyed him, taking him in, and looked away again.

'You're not what I was expecting.'

Seb returned his glance. 'Neither are you.'

John arched an eyebrow. 'I never am.'

They sat in silence for a few more minutes. The ice on the window began to melt. John put the car in gear and pulled off gingerly.

'What were you expecting then?' He said as they crawled along the road, the conditions a hindrance to fast driving. Seb shrugged. 'Somebody younger?' John laughed drily. Seb didn't answer. 'Prettier? A bit more...posh?'

That was pretty much it, Seb thought, but he didn't say so.

'It doesn't work, you know,' he added. 'Women out of your league.'

Seb looked away.

John sighed. 'Plummy accents want a plummy bank account and a plummy social life to go with them. And if you can only provide one, they'll find the other elsewhere.' He glanced at Seb. Seb stared studiously out of the window, watching the Christmas trees and fairy lights sparkle by. 'You don't know what it's like,' he added. 'Entitlement. And you never will, believe me.'

He sounded sad. Seb felt uncomfortably like he was supposed to acknowledge this somehow, like he was being passed on wisdom by his grandfather – definitely John looked old enough to be him - but he couldn't really find it in himself to care.

'What did they take?' He asked. John sighed. 'Oh, I don't know. Some jewellery, a few objects d'art, money. Plenty of value in the stuff I'm sure, but it's not about what they take, is it? Not completely.'

Seb nodded. He knew.

They pulled up outside the police station.

'Wait here,' John instructed. 'We shouldn't be long.'

Seb watched him go, straining to see if he could see Jessica, but all he saw was another door. He groaned, burying his face in his hands. Stupid, stupid, stupid he thought, hitting his head with each word. He propped his chin on his hands, glaring out of the window.

The door opened. Jessica stepped out, clutching Harry's hand. Seb looked away quickly, bowing his head. He clasped his hands between his knees, squeezing them as hard as he could.

'It's the photographs that get me,' Jessica said as she climbed into the back seat. 'The presents I can replace, the other stuff - well, none of it means as much as Jeremy's pictures.'

'Sshh.' Harry slipped an arm around her. 'Remember what the cop said. That stuff is hard to fence. They'll find it yet.'

John slid into the driver's seat.

'Oh Seb.' Jessica leaned forward, rubbing his arm. He felt a shock zap through his body.

'You're bloody freezing. John, didn't you bring him a jumper, or a coat?'

John glanced in the mirror. 'I was in a rush,' he said. 'I didn't realise you'd taken his stuff.'

'It was covered in sick.' Jessica sat back. Seb's arm felt even colder now she wasn't touching it. 'How are you anyway?'

He shrugged. He was more interested in how she was, but he was too embarrassed to ask. She yawned suddenly.

'Are you sure you don't want to come to mine?' Harry said.

'No. No I can't.'

They travelled on in silence. As they arrived at Jessica's house it began to snow again. It looked so pretty in the snow, Seb thought, like something from a Christmas card.

'Oh you poor darling,' she said as they disembarked. 'You look frozen. Let's all get inside and get a few hot whiskies into our bellies, come on.'

She wrapped an arm about him, rubbing his arm vigorously. He caught a faint whiff of what remained of her perfume.

Inside, the house was a mess. The hall table was upturned, paper scattered across the floor. Seb felt a jolt in his stomach.

John and Harry lifted the table back up and began gathering the paper. Seb wondered if he should help.

Jessica sighed. 'Leave it,' she said. 'Really guys, let's just get a drink.'

She headed towards the kitchen. The men followed, Seb trailing in their wake. The kitchen, he was surprised to see, was not wrecked, though it did look very bare. He glanced around, taking in the blank walls and empty shelves.

'I'm just glad we drank all the ice wines, so they couldn't get their hands on that.'

Jessica forced a smile, catching Seb's eye. He slipped into the seat beside her, forcing a smile back. She looked tired. He wanted to gather her up in his arms and let her sleep. Most of all, he wanted to protect her.

'You drank it all?' John said, turning on the kettle. Seb felt Jessica stiffen beside him.

'Yes. It was very...nice. Wasn't it Seb?' She glanced at him, winking. He felt his heart thunder. John glanced at them.

'Jess,' he said wearily, 'you didn't just get pissed on it did you?'

'What I did with it is none of your business,' she replied. Harry settled into a seat opposite, plucking a chunky joint from his cigarette case. John sighed.

'It's just...it's expensive stuff,' he said. 'It was a gift.'

'You're not going to impress me with your big spending,' Jessica said stiffly.

'Don't I know,' John muttered, retrieving four glasses from the cupboard. No one spoke as he fetched a bottle of whisky, pouring out four large measures. He topped them up with water and honey and carried them to the table.

'I can't believe you're doing that in front of me,' he said, laying Harry's drink in front of him. Harry raised his eyebrows and exhaled slowly. John sighed, passing Seb and Jessica their drinks. Seb took his gratefully, wrapping his hands about the glass. He took a sip, ignoring the burning on his tongue.

Silence settled around them, heavy with tiredness. Seb drank his drink, thankful for the warmth and the almost instant light headedness it brought. Beside him, Jessica's leg pressed against his and he concentrated his thoughts upon it, following them back up to her bedroom and her breasts, hidden in the high necked dress she still wore from the night before.

'I didn't see Pete Clarke last night,' Harry said. Seb felt Jessica's leg tense.

'His wife's just had a baby,' she said stiffly. 'And she's not well. The baby.'

'That's a shame.' Harry stubbed the end of his joint into a mug that was left on the table. 'Thought he might have pictures of the car.' John sighed heavily and stirred his drink.

'Have you seen it Seb?' Seb glanced up. Jessica shot Harry a look over his shoulder. He shrugged.

'You work with Peter Clarke?' John asked. Seb nodded, lowering his head over his glass. 'Apprentice?' He added. Seb nodded again.

'Who was that man last night, he said you did bit of work with him?' Jessica said. 'Paul something or other?'

Seb swallowed.

'Paul Cross?' She continued. 'Or something. I've never seen him before. He said he knew you John.'

Seb glanced up. John raised his gaze too, meeting Seb's. Seb looked away quickly. 'Come again?' He said slowly.

'Paul something. Cross maybe?'

Seb felt John's eyes burning into him.

'What did he look like?'

Jessica shrugged. 'Tall. Bald. Not very out of the ordinary I shouldn't say. He had his sons with him.'

John snorted suddenly. 'I can sure as hell tell you he didn't.'

'Oh, so you do know him?' Seb downed the last of his drink as fast as he could.

'Damn right I know him. I sent him to prison for ten years. And his kids.' A pause filled the room, the longest pause of Seb's life.

'Oh,' Jessica said slowly. 'What – what for?'

'Don't you remember?' John looked at his ex-wife. Jessica shook her head. He sighed. 'Just after we got married? My very first crown court case? Come on Jess, how could you forget?'

Seb slipped his hands under the table, clutching them between his knees. He stared hard at the wavy lines trailing across the table.

'He was indicted for armed robbery, grievous bodily harm, possession and sale of stolen goods and rape, but he got put away for the armed robbery and assault.'

Seb felt as if all warmth had left the room.

'The goods were pinned on one of his kids and the girl who was raped wouldn't testify against any of them.'

If Seb thought the last silence had been long, it was nothing compared to the one that followed. It seemed to weigh upon them; he could feel it pressing down upon his shoulders. He kept his head down, his heart pounding against his ribs.

'So,' John said slowly, his eyes burning into Seb's head. 'What exactly do you do for Crossan?'

Seb swallowed. His mouth had gone dry. He shrugged. 'I – nothing.' He cleared his throat, lifting his head. 'He – he got me my job in Clarke's back is all.'

Even though it was the truth Seb felt himself colour. He almost questioned himself, wondering if he was lying. He felt Jessica relax beside him.

'Well,' she said, sounding relieved. 'That's not so bad. He doesn't really sound like somebody you want to get too mixed up with.'

'No,' John said softly, still looking at Seb. 'He certainly isn't. Bad things seem to happen to his...boys.'

Harry downed the remainder of his drink and placed the glass on the table with an exaggerated sigh.

'Well,' he said, stretching. 'That was a lovely story and it's put me right in the mood for bedie byes. So I'm going to leave you lot of lovebirds to it and hit the sack.'

He stood up, unfolding himself from the chair. His hair and suit didn't look as sharp and crisp now he'd spent the night in it, Seb noticed.

Jessica sighed. 'Yes, I suppose we all should. John you can have the room with the en suite. Seb, you can go in the one opposite mine.'

Seb didn't feel tired, but he didn't say so. As long as she wasn't making him leave, he'd go anywhere she told him.

'I'll tidy up in here,' John said. He gathered their glasses as she rose and headed towards the doorway. Seb and Harry followed, shooting each other the coldest looks they could muster. Seb felt more than a small pang of jealousy as he heard Jessica tell Harry he may as well just sleep in her bed. He left the door open as he stripped off. He remembered Jessica's touch, her fingers tracing the lines of ink across his arm and torso. Slowly, he stripped to his boxers and pulled on a jumper that had been left out on the bed. John made his way up the stairs, his footsteps heavy and slow, as if he were walking through treacle. He was the only one of them who had changed from the night before and now, without his overcoat, he looked lost and wrong in jeans and a cardigan. He glanced at Seb as he reached the landing. The younger boy sat on the bed, feeling stupid now in his pants and jumper. For a moment their eyes met. Seb waited for him to speak. He opened his mouth as if to do so, but at that moment the bathroom door opened and Jessica swept out, wearing a large t-shirt and what looked like men's undershorts. Seb's heart skipped. She paused, taking in the two men looking back at her.

'Jess,' John said after a moment. 'Can I – speak to you? In private.'

Jessica glanced at Seb. He shrugged.

'Not now John,' she sighed. 'I'm really not in the mood right now.'

He followed her gaze, landing on Seb. Seb looked back, his face blank and unreadable. John sighed. He nodded and made his way up the stairs. They watched him go, the floorboards creaking under his heavy step. Jessica sighed and covered her face with both hands. Seb hesitated. He wondered if he should get up and embrace her. Maybe he should say something? He shifted awkwardly on the bed. He was so bad at this sort of thing. She exhaled slowly and lowered her hands. Even with all her make up gone, she still looked lovely, he thought, his heart twirling a tango with his stomach. She stepped into the room, shutting the door behind her with a gentle click. Seb placed his hands on the bed either side him. The mattress was large and wobbly underneath him. She leaned back against the door, her hands behind her. She had great legs, he thought. Such great legs.

'Seb...' She said slowly. He thought about those legs, wrapped around his shoulders. 'Are you – are you lying?'

He frowned. 'About that man,' she continued. 'That Paul man.' She looked at him, hard. 'Are you lying to me?'

He wasn't sure what he was supposed to have lied about. He shook his head. Her eyes searched his face, hunting for a clue.

'You don't...you don't work for him?' Seb shook his head. She didn't move. He swallowed.

'I...' he said slowly. 'I think he wants me to.' She frowned. 'You're not...going to, are you?'

He shook his head vigorously. She approached the bed, the mattress bouncing gently under her weight. She sat so close he could smell the toothpaste on her breath.

'Seb,' she murmured, looking at him with deep, serious eyes. 'You wouldn't lie to me would you?' He looked back, meeting her grey, questioning eyes with his brilliant blue ones. 'Promise me you won't lie to me?'

He swallowed.

'I promise.'

His voice was a whisper, but a genuine whisper.

'And – the gun?'

He wet his mouth. He had made a promise to get rid of the gun. He had also just made a promise not to lie to her. He could break one or the other, he thought. He cleared his throat.

'It's – hidden,' he said. 'I'm going to get rid of it, I –'

'Don't.'

Seb paused. Jessica looked at him. 'You can't go back home,' she said. 'I don't like the thought of you on your own in that place. And I don't want to be on my own here either.'

Seb frowned, struggling to get his head around what she was implying.

'You mean,' he said slowly, hoping he was right. 'You want me to – to come and...live with you?'

She arched an eyebrow. 'Not in that way,' she said, suppressing a smile. 'But I don't want to leave here, and I don't want to be here on my own. And I'd feel a damn sight safer if you had that gun. Not to use,' she added. 'Just to...to have. In the meantime I'll see if John can do anything about getting me a firearm licence or something.' She laughed. Seb watched her.

'Are you – are you alright?' He asked tentatively. 'After – last night?'

'I'm fine,' she said firmly. She smiled at him, a thin, wan sort of smile. 'What do you think?' She said.

'About – what?' She laughed wearily. 'About coming here.' Seb's face burned. He seemed to have swallowed his voice. 'There's only one condition.'

He waited.

'I want you to go to school.'

He opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off.

'Not school school. Like, part time. Evening college or something. You need to learn to read and write Seb. You do, if you want to get your qualifications as a mechanic. Don't you?'

He looked away. The room was the smallest in the house, girly and floral, full of chintz prints and China dolls that stared with blank, glassy eyes. It seemed so unlike Jessica he wouldn't have believed it was her house at all.

'It's nothing to be ashamed of,' she said. 'It's the system that's failed, not you.'

He leaned forward onto his knees, suddenly feeling very tired. She rubbed his back gently, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. It tickled. He glanced back at her. She wasn't wearing a bra, he noticed, the outline of her nipples poking through the t-shirt. He felt her fingers stroke the back of his neck. He turned, kissing her so suddenly she started. He leaned against her, forcing her back against the bed. She resisted, but Seb was stronger and she relented, kissing him back. He grabbed her legs, swinging them onto the mattress, and climbed over her. He hadn't brushed his teeth since the day before but she didn't seem to care. She held on to his arms, letting him pin her to the bed. He kissed her hard, hungrily, as if trying to get deeper inside her than was physically possible. He pulled back, catching his breath. She looked up at him, her face flushed.

'I love you,' he whispered. He waited. Her eyes flickered, glancing over his face. He willed her to say it back. Instead, she thrust towards him, aiming for his lips. He pulled back.

'Don't – don't you love me?' He asked. Don't you love me now?

She smiled the same small smile as before. 'Would I ask you to move in if I didn't?' Seb thought his whole body was going to explode. He swooped down, gathering her in both arms, and kissed her as hard as he could. She kissed him back and pulled her t-shirt over her head, revealing those pale, magnificent breasts. She was magnificent, he thought. So majestically magnificent. And she loved him. Which, he reckoned, made his life pretty damn magnificent too.

*

It was dark when Seb woke, though his phone said five past five. He lay as long as he could, breathing in Jessica's scent, soaking up the warmth of her body. Eventually, the need to pee overcame the desire to stay in bed and he extricated himself from the sheets as carefully as he could and made his way down the hall towards the bathroom, pulling his trousers over his shorts. The house was quiet, and yet not, creaking and groaning like something from an old horror movie. He peed and brushed his teeth, fixing his hair in the bathroom mirror, and crept back to the bedroom. Jessica looked so beautiful, he thought, so peaceful, her hands clutching a corner of the duvet to her face. He couldn't disturb her, not when she'd had such a shitty night. And it was his fault. He felt a twinge of guilt as he made his way downstairs, stepping as lightly as he could. The house was still messy, seeming almost naked with the lack of art pieces that Crossan had obviously taken. If he had tried to stop them, he reasoned, he would probably be missing some body part or other right now. And what would they have done to Jessica? He brushed aside the thoughts as best he could as he raided the kitchen, putting together a platter of sandwiches and fancy looking biscuits he'd never had before. As he piled layer after layer of a pale, creamy looking thing he really hoped was cheese onto his bread, his phone rang. Licking the stickiness of the thing-he-hoped-was-cheese off his fingers, he reached into his pocket. His heart jumped as he recognised Olly's number flashing on the screen.

'Seb lad,' Olly's fat tones greeted warmly as he answered. 'Are y'near a telly?' Seb answered in the affirmative.

'Well turn it on!'

'What is it?'

'Turn on an see! News.'

Seb padded into the sitting room and flicked on the TV. He went through the channels until he found the news. A woman, large and blond, was being interviewed.

'Who's she?' Seb asked.

'Ah it's gone. Where are you?'

'Jessica's house.'

'Ooo-ooooh. Nah, she's gotta have decent telly, find a news channel.'

Seb trawled through the channels until he found one. This one was interviewing the manager of a football team.

'Well ent it even in the breakin news on bottom o the screen?'

'I don't know. The TV's weird, I can't see.'

'Oh for fook's sake.' Olly sounded disappointed. 'Anyway, it's Norman, ent it?'

Seb chilled. 'What about him?'

'Well, they've found im, aven they? Two guesses where.'

'I don't know.'

'Ah, you're no fooken fun, y'know that Sebastien? Some kids found im bottom o canal. They were divin or summat, ah dunno, but news is all appealin for information an witnesses an all, aren't they?'

Seb didn't answer. There was an ad break on now. He watched a gang of colourful, over-smiley children running around singing about cereal.

'Suppose it's some closure for Mrs Trench ah guess. Ah kinda felt for er, dint you? She's nice.'

Seb nodded. He watched the TV, waiting for the news to start again.

'Where,' he cleared his throat. 'Where are you?'

'Oh, ah can't say. Me dad's still sortin things out, Crossan weren't appy, e ad these ideas of settin up an ard front in your flat apparently. But we're fine. Aren't we Ems? Hey Emily, it's Seb, remember Seb?'

Seb heard Emily squeal his name. Olly put her on the phone. She chatted away in a language Seb couldn't understand. He didn't reply.

Olly returned a moment later. 'Ah miss ya lad,' he said quietly. Seb felt his stomach twinge, his face colour.

'Ah mean ah love Emily an all, but there's no fun in a toddler all time, is there?'

Seb didn't answer.

'Anyway, s'pose I'd best go, not sure ahv much credit left. Ah'll chat ya soon alright? Say bye bye Ems.'

'Olly -' Seb began, but Olly was already gone. His heart sank back to its proper place.

The news started again. He watched, waiting. The politicians and journalists, more shootings and another stabbing in Seb's area, and there, third, Norman's face, large and grinning. Seb watched the newsreader, a pretty Asian woman who looked like she probably had great tits, if her jacket wasn't in the way. He was so busy trying to figure them out he missed what she was saying about Norman. The next story started, a robbery on a cash machine in another part of town. Seb slouched back in the chair, groaning.

'Oh keep it in your pants you little swine.'

Seb started. Harry strutted into the room, flinging himself onto the sofa. Seb tensed.

He looked back at the TV, hoping the darkness hid his blush. Harry stretched out his legs, watching him.

'You know she's only shagging you cause she thinks it's the best way to get the pictures she wants?'

Seb stared at the TV. The pretty newsreader was gone, replaced by a weatherman who looked far too jolly to be telling them it was going to be minus twelve. He wouldn't let Harry get to him, he told himself. He wouldn't.

'Aaaannnddd right about...ooh, I don't know, now I'd say, she's up texting a ravishing young gentleman - young, but still older than you - an art student, doing his thesis. On her.' Harry reached for his cigarette case and plucked out a joint. 'First,' he said, lighting it up. 'She'll have caught his attention cause, hell, why wouldn't she? She catches most men's attention. Then he'll have come to admire her work, in no small part because he admires her tits and ooohh, this boy - oh he's rich, he's educated, he comes from a good family. Her sort. He knows all about art and even more about women and she loves it, she loves it. She. Loves. Him.' He exhaled slowly. Seb clenched his fists. Ignore him, ignore him.

'Good looking as well. Tall. Blond. Tennis player. Skin like a baby's arse. Alfie.'

He groaned mockingly and inhaled again. Seb wasn't going to hit him. That was exactly what Harry wanted. She loved him. He was moving in.

'You were in a real hurry to get away last night, weren't you?' Harry continued, watching him through the darkness. 'Strange fall you had on those steps.'

Seb kept his gaze on the TV.

'What's going on in here?'

He started as the light flickered overhead. Jessica stepped into the room, fully dressed.

'Whatever are you two doing sitting in the dark?' She glanced at Harry. 'Harry! I've told you before you can't smoke in here! There's so much valuable stuff in here, you'll ruin –' She stopped. She covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes welling. Harry leapt from the sofa, enveloping her in an all-consuming embrace. Seb looked away, glaring at the TV.

'You can't stay here,' Harry said, stroking her hair. 'Come and stay with me, just for a while.'

Jessica shook her head. 'No,' she said. 'No, I'm staying here. Seb's going to stay with me, aren't you?' She pulled back, smiling at Seb. He looked at Harry. The older man didn't look too impressed.

'Jess,' he said, taking her arm. 'Come here. I need to talk to you.' He steered her towards the door. She went without question. Over his shoulder, Harry shot Seb a look he couldn't quite figure out, but he disliked nonetheless. Their footsteps pattered downwards, into the basement. Seb glared furiously at the TV, trying his best to quash the anger that boiled inside him. He wouldn't let Harry ruin everything. He wouldn't. The news started again, the headlines and Norman's face flashing up on the screen. Seb rose, flinging the remote onto the chair, and made his way upstairs. He dressed hurriedly, pulling the jumper he had slept in over his t-shirt and robbing a scarf from the chest of drawers. The cold didn't seem as cold when he hit it. He made his way around the park, his step light and airy. He looked about, taking in the neighbourhood, it's tall old houses, front gardens full of snowmen and sleek cars. The road glittered with Christmas lights, windows glowing with fires and trees. It was Heaven, Seb thought; this was what they meant by Heaven. He passed carollers, their melody stark against the otherwise quiet of the snow. He felt as much a king as the man they sang about and he even strutted down Shore Street, not caring if anyone came on to him or after him. He wouldn't even hit them, he thought. So Norman was dead. So Paul Crossan thought he had him under his thumb. So Olly and Emily had gone, so Jessica's house had been burgled and he hadn't stopped it; she loved him, and he would do everything and anything she wanted and from now on, from this moment, he would keep her safe and protected, and he wouldn't let Crossan anywhere near her. He let himself into the hallway below the flat. Snow had gotten in somehow, making the trail of muddy post and rubbish wet and slippery. He picked his way through it, up the stairs and into the flat. It was almost colder here than outside. He retrieved a bag from his mother's room, a large black holdall, and began to fill it with everything he wanted, which wasn't much. He shoved in his clothes, his towels. He took the radio from the mantelpiece and a magazine Olly had left behind. It wasn't really porn, but there were plenty of boobs in it. He glanced about the bedrooms and kitchen, but there was nothing. The sum of his life, he thought, zipping up the bag. It didn't even fill a holdall.

Finally, he took the pistol from behind the cupboards. He checked it slowly. He didn't know much about guns, but he knew about machines, and a gun was just another machine, he figured. He stuffed it into the pocket of the coat and made his way to the door. It seemed such a waste of metal, he thought. It would make the perfect hard front for Crossan alright. He took one last glance about the flat. He took in the dirt and debris, the dust, the discarded plates and cups. He wasn't going to miss it, he thought. On the mantelpiece, Dolly stared back at him from behind cracked glass. He swallowed.

I failed you.

No; he pushed the thought aside. No, he hadn't failed her. She had failed him. But it sat there, weighing on the edge of his mind. He swallowed again. He wasn't going to fail again, he thought. Never again.

He took one last look at Dolly. She grinned back, her smile hard and desperate, her eyes sad. No, he wouldn't miss this place at all.

22

Seb was on edge for the rest of the day. It was the gun, he thought. Olly was right; it was unnerving just having it there. They dined together, the four of them, and John left to prepare for a case the following Monday. Harry took longer to go, but went eventually. Jessica retired soon after. She tried to persuade Seb to come, but he refused; he couldn't, not right now. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep, or do anything else for that matter.

He stayed in the sitting room, staring blankly at the television. Gradually, his attention wandered, landing on the drinks cabinet beside it. He rose slowly. It was like a pick 'n' mix of alcohol; he didn't know what to choose. He went through the bottles slowly, one by one. The clock in the hallway chimed midnight. Around him the house creaked and groaned, shifting on its foundations. All he heard were footsteps, whispers, creeping men. He knew they weren't there, and yet he heard them, in every sigh and shudder of the old house. He drank quicker.

He laid the gun on the coffee table. It sat before him, black and blank. It was hard to believe such a small, unassuming thing, small enough to fit in a coat pocket, could kill someone.

He wondered what it was like to kill someone. He'd heard a man in Norman's pub boast about killing before. He'd said it wasn't an easy thing at all. He'd said that people struggled to the last, that whatever anyone thought or said, the will to live was stronger than anything you could ever imagine. Killing someone was hard, he'd said. Physically, mentally. He'd described in detail a man he'd shot in the head taking five minutes to die. The sounds of death, the smells. Seb had been thirteen at the time and fascinated, but it haunted his dreams for weeks after and he couldn't watch someone get shot in a movie without thinking of it, second by second, since.

He filled another glass. His hand was shaking. He stared at it, willing it to stop. Gradually, it did. He polished off the bottle he'd settled on, a heavily spiced, heady smelling rum, and stood up.

Olly's coat was too big. He'd never noticed it being too big on Olly, but it must have been. He pulled the hood up, the furry rim dipping over his face.

Empty strings clanked against the flagpoles along the canal. Seb kept his head down, though there was no one around. He scurried under the streetlights, wondering what sort of vision they gave to the CCTV cameras every few feet along. Every second light was broken and he was scared. He hurried under a bridge, passing the first other human life since he had left, a homeless man huddled under layers of coats against a wall that smelled of urine and spray paint. That's if they were alive, he thought. The place stank of death.

On the bridge he straightened up. The coat smelled of Olly. Olly; stupid, reckless, oblivious Olly. He grasped the handle of the gun in his pocket. Clever, caring, carefree Olly.

He didn't hear alarms; he'd known he wouldn't, but the drink had blurred his thoughts and he started as a boy rushed out before him, shouting. He recognised him, young and fit, his arm outstretched. He was shouting, though Seb couldn't hear what he was saying. A window opened overhead. Lights flooded the yard. There were more shouts. Seb pulled the gun from his pocket and fired. He hadn't meant to. He hadn't intended to pull the trigger at all. For a moment he wondered if he had, the sound of the shot loud and deafening, even when dulled by the snow. But the boy staggered, stumbling backwards on the ice and fell, crying out. More shots fired. Seb threw his hands over his head, clinging tightly to the gun.

'STOP!'

The shots stopped. The footsteps didn't. He lowered his hands, holding the pistol out before him.

'Don't fucking shoot! ANY OF YOU!'

Seb glanced up. Crossan leaned out of a top floor window, his bald head glinting in the light behind him.

'Don't fucking move, the lot of you.'

Crossan disappeared. Seb looked back at the boys before him. There were three of them, two brandishing guns, smaller and less threatening looking than his. The third crouched by the fallen boy, examining the damage Seb had inflicted upon his friend. The door opened, a fourth man stepped out. Seb recognised him immediately.

'Stand aside boys.' Mike sounded weary, as if an inebriated teenager brandishing a gun was a more common experience than he cared to recall.

'Give us the gun mate.' He extended a hand towards Seb, palm up. 'Come on. No one's gonna shoot you, you heard the boss.'

'If he shoots you, I'm fucking shooting him,' one boy said.

'Nobody's shooting anyone till Paulie says,' Mike replied. The second boy lowered his gun. Mike shot him a look. 'I didn't bloody say lower it, did I?'

The boy raised the gun quickly, pointing it at Seb. The younger boy didn't blink.

The door opened, sparkling green and red lights spilling across the yard. Crossan stepped out, pulling a hoodie over his t-shirt. Seb gripped the gun tightly with both hands. They didn't shake now, he noticed. Not even a twitch.

Crossan stepped towards them, shaking his head. 'Nobody is getting fucking murdered in my fucking yard.' He strode towards them. 'You're a proper tit,' he said to Seb. He glanced at the boy Seb had shot. 'Is he alright?'

'I'm fine,' the boy said bitterly, rubbing his shoulder.

'He's OK,' his friend said.

'Take him inside,' Crossan ordered. 'You take over his spot. Let him get some ice on it.'

The boy climbed to his feet, aided by his mate, and hobbled towards the house. Crossan turned back to Seb.

'Type two body armour,' he said. He looked Seb up and down. 'And an untrained marksman.'

He eyed the gun grasped in Seb's hand. 'Piece look familiar Mike?' He said. Mike stepped towards Seb, glancing over the gun. Seb stepped back.

'Yeah, funny that,' Mike said. 'Glock 17. Beloved personal firearm of the armed response unit.'

'What?' One of the boys said. 'You said we had to do the PSNI for them!'

'Shut up!' Crossan hit the boy across the back of the head. He winced, but did as he was told. Crossan shook his head. 'Idiot,' he muttered. He turned back to Seb. 'You're lucky I knew exactly who you were,' he said. 'Or I'd have had this lot drag you out there and shoot you like a dog.'

Seb swallowed. He had a feeling dogs were shot with more respect. Crossan shoved his hands into his pocket, surveying the boy casually. None of them looked in any way nervous or concerned that there was a young man pointing a gun at the older man's head, least of all Crossan.

'He won't shoot me,' Crossan said confidently. 'He won't shoot me for the same reason I didn't shoot him. Will you?' He eyed Seb, challenging him.

Seb wet his lips. 'I will,' he said, his voice a scratchy whisper. 'I will.'

Crossan laughed. 'Right, of course you will. Because you got your gangster 101 lessons from Frank Bowman's kid, I forgot.'

The gang around him laughed. Over Crossan's shoulder Seb saw Ciara Crossan, watching silently and safely from a ground floor window.

'How are you feeling after your little fall the other day?' Crossan said, as if this were a totally normal situation that called for small talk. 'Nasty bang on the head you got. Lucky you have the lovely Mrs Newsome to look after you. Shame she had to leave her own gallery opening, but I guess that's how much she must love you hey?'

Seb gripped the gun tighter. Yes, he thought, she loved him. That was why he was here.

'Anyway, you certainly interrupted my chance to get into her pants. That would have been quite delightful, wouldn't it boys?'

The boys around him nodded and murmured.

'Good looking woman,' Crossan continued. 'Recently divorced, so desperate for some male company she's shagging an inexperienced teenager. Looking for a man who can keep her in the style she's used to, give her a good seeing to, tell her everything she wants to hear, oh, she would have dropped her knickers for me in a second. Quicker even than your mum I'd say.' He laughed again. Seb hated his laugh. Seb hated everything about him.

'I know you robbed her house,' he said. Crossan chuckled. The chuckle infuriated Seb.

'I know you did it,' he snarled. 'And I can tell.'

Crossan nodded at one of his boys. The boy scrabbled about in his pocket, pulling out a packet of cigarettes. He passed them to Crossan who lit up, exhaling slowly into Seb's face. It was disgusting, but Seb refused to flinch.

'You can tell,' he said, inhaling again. 'Though I'm not sure who you think you'd tell. The Honourable John Newsome perhaps? Her ex husband? Or the cops? Either way it doesn't end well for you, does it?'

The boys murmured.

'Mmm, imagine that.' He gazed off into the distance mock dreamily. 'Shagging that cunt's pretty little ex wife. Wouldn't that be a satisfying bit of revenge? Film it and send it to him.'

Seb clenched his teeth. A gust of wind swept through the yard, making his hood wobble about his face.

'She wouldn't shag you,' he said. 'She knows who you are you now. She knows what you've done.'

Crossan roared with laughter. The gang around him joined in.

'Who said she'd have to want to?' He shook his head, grinning. Seb felt a chill run through him, unrelated to the icy breeze. He exhaled, staring at Seb through the gust of smoke that billowed from his lungs. Seb stared right back.

'Yes,' he said softly. 'That's another idea altogether. And a very good one indeed. What do you say Sebastien?'

Seb felt the trigger burn under his finger. Crossan tapped the cigarette, the ash that fell from it melting through the snow below.

'Tell you what, hand over that gun and we'll have a nice warm little chat inside and we'll see can we come to an arrangement about me not fucking your little mummy substitute shall we?'

The gun was warm, from Seb's hands or the bullets, he wasn't sure. He gripped it tighter, shaking his head.

'Come on,' Crossan said soothingly, flicking his cigarette away. 'You don't want to shoot me son, believe me. Or anyone else here. So come on, hand over the piece.' He stepped forward, holding out his hand. Seb stepped back. His stomach churned, the thought of Crossan's hands on Jessica's skin spreading nausea through his body.

'Seriously kid.' Crossan's voice was grave now, all trace of laughter gone. 'No connections are gonna save you if you do, blood, water or any other bodily fluids. Or that pretty little bit you're fucking.'

Crossan was right, Seb knew. If he did anything here, he would be dead. More likely worse. Behind Crossan's shoulder his wife watched, her eyes staring, glassy and soulless like the blood sodden cat.

'Come on Seb. At least tell me why you've come down here waving a piece in my face, with my kids asleep in bed and my wife with her nerves and my boys here ready to do you one. You ain't stupid, I know that. So what did you want? To scare me? To get something from me? To kill me?' He emphasised the second last word, sneering. Seb thought of the man in Norman's. It was easy, he thought. It would be too easy. The man was wrong. And they knew it. They knew far better than him how easy it would be to kill.

'He stinks of drink.' Mike wrinkled his nose. Crossan snorted.

'False courage got you down here then eh? Well surely you must have a reason. Spit it out. Or shoot me and take your chances with my boys. But they're trained, I warn you. And protected, as you've seen.' He folded his arms, watching Seb. Seb held the gun steady, straining his brain. He knew there was a reason, there had to be. He had had a reason for coming here, but right now, every reason he could think of seemed more stupid than the last.

Crossan sighed. 'It's too fucking early in the morning for this shit,' he said. 'Disarm him, stick him in the van for the morning.' He looked Seb right in the eyes. In the beaming white lights of the yard, Seb could see they were blue, a brilliant, blazing azure. 'And then get me Liam and the camcorder and we'll go give that posh bitch the fuck of her life.'

Seb flipped. He opened fire, blasting blindly at the group before him. Crossan yelled. He staggered backwards, clutching his arm. One boy fell to his knees, crying out as his gun skidded across the drive, disappearing under the snow. Around him the ground began to turn red, blood trickling from his leg onto the ice. He gripped his thigh, crying. Opposite, the youngest boy stood, his eyes frozen on the blood mushrooming through the snow. Mike yelled at him, shouting at him to use his gun. The boy didn't move. Mike leapt forward, wrestling the weapon from his hands. Seb looked at Crossan. The older man looked up at him, clutching his elbow in one hand.

'You're fucked,' he spat.

Seb stepped back. He lifted the gun. Behind the older man he could see Ciara Crossan, still staring. Her eyes met his, blank and unreadable.

'I know,' he whispered.

He fired, the last few bullets bursting from the chamber with a force that shook his whole body. The shells flew from the gun, skidding across the ice. Crossan crumpled, landing sideways in the snow. Mike yelled. Seb turned and fled. His legs felt unsteady underneath him, like he was running on custard. Bullets whizzed past, whistling in the air around him. The shots exploded, the noise echoing off the walls around them, bouncing back. He ran. He ran and ran, keeping to the grass so as not to slip, the snow and ice crunching under his feet. No one followed. He knew they wouldn't but he ran anyway, his ears ringing with the echo of the gunshots and his heartbeat.

He stopped only as he reached the hill park. His heart hammered in his throat, making his vision blur. He reached for the railings, his hand shaking. He thought he was going to be sick. He leaned over, retching, almost willing the vomit to come, but nothing did, not even the alcohol whose bitter, chemical aftertaste burned in his throat. He straightened up, inhaling deeply. The air was sharp and refreshing, like cold water the day after alcohol. Gradually, his hands stopped shaking, though his legs still felt weak.

He began to walk, an uncomfortable wetness sticking his trousers to his legs. Even through the fear he felt more than a little embarrassed as he let himself back into Jessica's. But he didn't have time to take a long shower. He stripped off his chinos, leaving them in a pile on the bathroom floor. He hosed his legs down quickly with the showerhead and pulled on a pair of tracksuit bottoms. His mouth was dry. They had to go. He knew it, though he didn't want to. He cupped his hands, letting the water from the tap flow over them. It was cold, making the hairs on his arms rise. He leaned down and gulped it up, splashing his face between mouthfuls. He looked at himself in the mirror. He took in the pale flesh, the blazing blue eyes. He knew now. He knew everything, and he loathed it. He snatched the towel from its rail, rubbing his face vigorously. They had to go. They had to.

'Wake up. Wake up.'

He shook Jessica gently, though every centimetre of his body hopped agitatedly on the spot and screamed at her to hurry up. She blinked sleepily up at him.

'Seb?' She yawned. 'What's up? What's going on?'

He snatched her bag from the night before. It was bold, he thought, but they must go. He began shoving her clothes into it, not even stopping to see what they were. She sat up, frowning at him.

'What on earth are you doing?'

He snatched make up from her dressing table, perfume.

'We have to go,' he said.

'Go where exactly?'

'Away.' He had no idea. She folded her arms. He filled the bag, stuffing in as much clothes as he could.

'For fuck's sake Seb, leave my stuff alone. What the hell is going on? It's half one in the bloody morning.'

'We have to go,' he repeated. That was all that filled his brain, like a chant; we have to go, we have to go. She has to go.

'So you said. And why?'

He didn't answer. He knelt down, snatching a pair of shoes from the floor and shoved them into the bag. She swung her legs around the edge of the bed. As she rose she reached down, grabbing the other side of the bag. She tried to pull it away but Seb was stronger. She let go, letting the bag slump to the floor.

'What the fuck is going on?' She demanded. 'Tell me Seb. Are you on drugs again?' He shook his head, frustrated. Why wasn't she getting ready to go?

'Well then why are you acting like this? It isn't funny you know. If you think this is some way to get into my bed you're sorely mistaken. I'm going to call John if you don't calm down.'

'You don't get it,' he cried. 'We have to leave! Now!'

She folded her arms. 'No, I don't get it,' she said. 'Why do we "have to leave now"?'

Seb stood up. The bag dangled heavily by his side in one hand, a lacy pink bra in the other. He swallowed.

'Because,' he said, looking her straight in the eye. 'Because I shot Paul Crossan.'

Jessica gasped.

'You – what?'

Seb shrugged. 'I didn't mean to, I just wanted to - to protect you and - and I wanted get your photos back, but I shot him and now – now he's...'

No, he'd better not tell her. But he had to tell her something. 'Now they're gonna come after us, me and you, and it was him that robbed you and they know where you live and they're going to come after us and we have to go.'

Jessica sank onto the bed, holding her mouth with one hand, her stomach with the other. Seb felt desperation course through him, crashing into his heart like a tidal wave.

'Please,' he begged. 'We have to go.'

She looked up at him, her eyes hard.

'What have you got me into?' She said. Seb, taken aback by her anger, blinked. He opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came.

'What have you done?' Tears filled her eyes. Seb felt as if someone was stabbing him in the heart. 'I helped you. I looked after you. I trusted you. And this – this is what you go and do?'

'I was – I was doing it for you,' he whispered. 'You killed a man? For me? And put us both in danger?'

'I didn't kill him,' Seb said. At least, he didn't think he had. She didn't seem to hear.

'I can't believe this,' she whispered. 'I can't believe this.'

He clutched the bag and bra tightly, his nails digging into the palms of his hands. He could taste his heartbeat in the back of his mouth. She had to go. He had to make her go.

'Please Jess,' he pleaded. 'We really have to go. I'll – I'll pay, I'll look –'

'No,' she said. 'You have to go.'

Seb stopped. She shook her head.

'This has nothing to do with me.' 'But – but – you can come with me.'

She laughed, a harsh, mirthless laugh that sent chills through Seb's bones.

'What do you think this is, Romeo and Juliet? Fake our deaths and run away to live together?'

She laughed again, though Seb thought that wasn't actually such a bad idea at all. She shook her head.

'I thought you weren't going to lie to me.' Her voice was sad, full of tears. As ever, Seb was amazed how rapidly she moved through emotions. He would never, ever be able to keep up, he thought.

'I – I didn't lie,' he said.

'Well then how the hell have you got yourself involved with a dangerous bloody criminal, who burgled my house, has raped and assaulted people, been in prison – how Seb?' She glared at him, her eyes demanding an answer. He had none. 'For god's sake.' She shook her head, looking away with a sigh.

'I can explain everything,' he said desperately. 'Properly. But we need to go first.'

'I don't care.' Her voice was cold and hard. It hit Seb like a wave of icy water, leaving him stunned. 'You're in deep shit. And I am not going to be drawn into it.' She stood up, snatching the bag from his hand. This time it slipped easily from his grasp. She tossed it back into the corner and turned to him.

'Did you know about my home being broken into?' She demanded. Seb blinked, but held her gaze.

'Well, did you?'

He couldn't tell her; he couldn't tell the truth. But he couldn't lie either. He looked away.

'Oh my god.'

He looked back, frustrated now, as well as desperate. She looked at him, her face an unreadable mix of emotions, more than Seb could ever have thought existed.

'Get out.' Her voice was a whisper, quiet and deadly. Seb felt his frustration branch out into anger, propped up by his acute awareness of the fact they needed to go, and as soon as possible. 'Get out.'

'I had nothing to do with it!' He yelled. 'I wanted to stop it! And I couldn't stop it, and I couldn't stop him, and I felt shit about it and I didn't know what to do so I went there tonight and I shot him, I fucking shot him! I shot him for you! Because I love you.'

Jessica blinked, her breath coming in short, heavy gasps. She breathed slowly, trying to get a hold on it.

'Well,' she said levelly, swallowing. 'Well, I don't love you Seb.'

The room seemed to chill. Seb felt the coldness wash over him, as if someone had poured a bucket of ice on his head. But it was a coldness fused with fury.

'Don't lie!' He yelled. 'I didn't lie to you. I promised I wouldn't lie to you and I didn't. So don't fucking lie to me!'

She shook her head. 'I'm not lying to you Seb. I don't love you.' Outside, a cat screeched. Seb shook his head, angry now.

'You're not going to make me stay by lying,' he said. 'We have to go. Come on.'

He reached out, grabbing her arm. She pulled away, jerking so hard he lost his grip.

'I am not going anywhere with you,' she said. 'Especially not if you're in the sort of trouble I think you are.'

Seb kicked the wardrobe door in frustration. It crashed on its hinges, echoing about the house. Jessica jumped.

'You asked me to move in!' He shouted. 'You said you wouldn't have if you didn't love me!' Jessica looked away. She folded her arms slowly, her breasts lifting together underneath her t-shirt. She sighed and looked back at him.

'I wanted you to move in because I'm scared. I didn't want to tell Harry or John cause they'd have made me go somewhere else, and I knew you thought you loved me, and you'd do everything you could to protect me. So that's why I suggested that. But I never, ever said I loved you Seb.'

Seb felt the world melt away. His head screamed and screamed, deafening him, blinding him. Fury rose in his stomach, he felt it clawing its way through his chest and throat.

'I'm sorry,' she whispered. Her voice was small and sad. She looked up at him, her eyes big and black, her skin almost glowing in the darkness of the room. She was so beautiful. So, so beautiful. And he hated her.

'Oh god. Please forgive me.' She reached out towards him but he stepped away. Tears spilled onto her cheeks.

'I'm sorry,' she whispered. 'I'm sorry Seb. I've been such a bitch. I do love you. I do. Just not...not in that way.'

She stepped towards him, looking at him with large, watery eyes. She wet her lips, saliva glistening on them in the silvery light from outside.

'I'm – I'm in love with – with someone else.' Her eyes were wide, pleading. Her heart beat so loudly he could hear it, drowning out all other sounds. She was so beautiful, he thought. So, so beautiful. And he hated her. Seb flipped.

Seb Daly was a hard boy. He had been, his whole life. He had to be as he made his way through the snow, clinging to a holdall as if it were the last bit of warmth left on earth. He had to be, braced against the cold that bit at his face and hands. He had to be, on the longest walk of his life.

It began to rain, so his wet face was not so telling and the pavement became a dangerous ice rink, shining in the soft white lights of the trees.

Eighty-six pounds, what a rip off.

He settled onto the seat, hugging the bag to his chest.

It'll take as many hours too, in this weather.

He watched two girls opposite him, students he reckoned, going home for Christmas. They were happy, laden down with parcels and bags, bottles of wine to see them through the journey.

You scumbag, you maggot, you cheap lousy faggot.

He wanted wine. What he wouldn't do for wine right now, so much wine he wouldn't be able to think. So much wine he would never, ever have to think again. The train pulled out of the station with a blast. The girls waved to their friends on the platform, laughing and singing. Seb hugged the bag tighter, wishing he could sleep. Nobody waved to him. He pulled his hood over his head and stared out of the window. The world sailed by, pale and shadowy, lights flashing intermittently, flash – flash – flash. He watched it pass. The snowmen were missing limbs, one eyed and half-headed, the snow no longer white but brown and dirty, melting gradually away. The girls called to him. They offered him wine. He took it, smiling gratefully. Who was he, where was he from, what did he do, where was he going, what was in the precious bag? Seb Daly, he said, from nowhere, going nowhere. And he was their distraction.

Look to the future now, it's only just beguu-uuu-uuun.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to Smashwords.com to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

