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  ‘Pencil,’ Felix whispered feebly.

  ‘Pardon?’ she said, bending to hear him, but he couldn’t repeat it. Couldn’t even think about it properly, as everything jumbled together in his head. The woodchip and the tassel and You took your time, and I’ll take care of everything and the rough sway of the apple tree under him – all while Mabel barked and wagged at the same time to show she was friendly, yet capable of extreme violence.

  PC Braddick left him and he didn’t know where she had gone until she came back with half a glass of water, which he sipped only because she wanted him to.

  ‘Are you all right, Mr Pink?’ she was saying. ‘Do you have pills I can get for you?’

  Yes, back-in-time pills would be lovely, thank you.

  He didn’t say that. Just shook his head and then realized he’d indicated ‘no’ to one question when the other one required a ‘yes’ and so he nodded his head too, then shook it again, then stopped moving it altogether because he thought he must look like the little wooden Bambi on a spring that they’d bought for Jamie in Austria many moons ago. He’d sit and play with it for hours, pressing the base into the wooden plinth with his tiny thumb, to make the jointed fawn bend this leg or that leg, or to bow or to sit or to ­waggle its little leather ears. Jamie’s eyes had shone with happiness every time he got it just right, and Felix was suddenly glad that Jamie hadn’t lived to see the internet. Then all his memories of his son would be of the back of his head . . .

  The young woman was crouched down in front of Felix now, looking anxiously into his face. She reached up and gently touched the lump on his head. ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘What happened here?’

  ‘You should see the other guy,’ Felix whispered, and then he started to cry.

  Part Two

  That Meeting at the Café

  His father had only been dead for two days, but Reggie’s heart still skipped a beat when he saw Amanda waiting for him at the café.

  He bent and kissed her cheek and sat down opposite her at the little wooden table.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Reggie.’

  ‘Thanks, Manda.’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘How about your granddad?’

  Reggie made a face. ‘It’s harder for him, I think. He lost his son. Plus, he’s still alive when apparently he expected to be dead, so you know,’ he shrugged, ‘he’s confused and angry.’

  They’d spoken on the phone, of course, but now they were together Reggie could see how genuinely upset she was for him. He was lucky to have her. The three months since they’d met had been the happiest of his life.

  ‘Reggie,’ she said softly, ‘I have to tell you something.’

  ‘What, Manda?’ He took her hands in his, but she didn’t look at him. Then she withdrew her hand – and a little alarm bell started to ring in the back of his head.

  ‘What is it?’ he said. ‘What’s wrong?’

  He watched in confusion as a tear plopped off her nose and on to the table.

  ‘What ?’

  ‘I was there,’ she said, so low that he had to lean forward again to hear her.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I was there,’ she repeated. ‘At your house.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He was confused. Amanda had never been to his house. What was she talking about? He didn’t know what she—

  And then – suddenly – he did know.

  ‘You mean . . . ?’

  Her lower lip wobbled and she nodded.

  ‘You’re an Exiter?’

  ‘Exiteer.’

  Reggie felt sick. Dazed. He sat back in his chair. Someone had released a swarm of hot bees inside his head. ‘You never told me.’

  ‘It’s not . . .’ she started. ‘You’re not supposed to . . . you know . . . like Fight Club.’

  He shook his head. Couldn’t look at her. He picked up a fork from the cutlery jar and slowly worked the tines between the slats of the little wooden table.

  ‘What happened?’ he said.

  ‘Reggie, I—’

  He didn’t look at her. ‘What happened ?’

  ‘It was my first time,’ she said, ‘and . . . we . . . made a mistake.’

  A mistake.

  ‘I felt terrible, Reggie. I mean, I didn’t even know because I’d never been there . . . And I understand why, of course, what with your granddad being so sick and stuff, and I’m not making excuses, I’m just saying, if I’d been to your house before and met him . . .’

  But she hadn’t. Because he hadn’t let her. Because he was a coward and a liar.

  Reggie levered the fork backwards and forwards, minutely widening the gap in the slats. Amanda went on talking, even though he wished she wouldn’t.

  ‘When I heard his name I got such a shock, but then I just assumed it was Skipper because I knew Skipper was sick. And I was with this old man called John, and I just did what he said because he’s experienced. He’s killed loads of people. Well, not killed but, you know, helped—’

  ‘Albert didn’t want to be helped.’

  Amanda nodded miserably and Reggie wanted to hold her. Wanted to hug her and tell her it wasn’t her fault because it was his fault. He was to blame. Wanted to tell her that it would be all right. That they would be all right. But he couldn’t. Because it wasn’t. And they wouldn’t.

  His silent fork widened the gap.

  ‘Don’t do that, please!’

  They both looked up at a woman holding a dishcloth and a teapot.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, and put the fork down.

  ‘Would you like to order something?’

  ‘Er, no. Thank you.’

  ‘OK,’ said the waitress, ‘but you can’t just sit here.’

  Reggie stood up. Amanda started to rise but he stopped her halfway.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t want you . . . with me.’

  She looked up at him, blinking tears down her cheeks. ‘Please, Reggie,’ she begged him. ‘I made a mistake—’

  She was getting up anyway. Wasn’t going to let him go. He had to stop her.

  ‘My father’s dead,’ he said flatly. ‘And you killed him.’

  The waitress stood open-mouthed, teapot akimbo. Excuse me? said someone behind her. In a minute, she said, without turning around.

  ‘Just . . . stay here,’ said Reggie. ‘Have a hot chocolate.’ He fumbled in his pocket for change.

  ‘Reggie—’

  ‘Look !’ He slapped the table and she flinched. He softened his tone. ‘I don’t want to get you in trouble or anything, all right? But I just . . . I really can’t see you any more.’

  ‘But, Reggie!’ Amanda’s voice shook. ‘I love you!’

  ‘Manda . . .’ he started brokenly – as if he might tell her that he loved her too.

  But he didn’t.

  Instead he dropped a random handful of coins on the table and walked away.

  The Wing Mirror

  Reggie was so disorientated that he’d passed the post office before he remembered that he was parked in the Town Hall car park. He turned around and headed back past the café, but Amanda had gone. She hadn’t stayed. Hadn’t had another hot chocolate. From here he could still see his money, and the waitress stopping again to watch him pass.

  He put his head down and headed for his car with keys in hand. Wanting to be home; wanting never to be home again. Wanting to be able to think and to stop thinking. Still reeling from the shock and the shame—

  ‘This your car, mate?’

  ‘What?’ The man standing next to his car was big. Tall. Heavy. Low brow, thick lips, with bright blue eyes and ridiculously yellow curls. He was pointing at the little red MX5 his father had bought him for Christmas. His father, who was so tight he squeaked.

  ‘Someone broke yo
ur mirror.’

  ‘What? You’re joking!’

  ‘See?’

  That’s what he was pointing at. The mirror, dangling against the driver’s door.

  ‘Bastard!’ It never rained but it poured. Reggie looked around as if some passer-by might put their hand up and admit respons­ibility. ‘This is all I fucking need.’

  ‘You Albert Cann’s son, yeah?’

  Reggie was confused. ‘Yes. Sorry, do I know you?’

  ‘Knew your dad a bit.’

  ‘Oh.’ Reggie expected the man to offer his condolences, but he didn’t.

  ‘He owes people money.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Albert. He owes people money.’

  ‘What money? What people?’

  ‘My boss. Terry. Albert owes him forty grand.’

  ‘Forty grand!’ Reggie laughed because it was laughable, and shook his head. ‘You’ve got the wrong person, mate.’

  He stepped around the man and unlocked the car door. The mirror swung against it, coloured wires bulging from the casing.

  The man didn’t move aside.

  Reggie squeezed past him into the car and tried to pull the door shut, but the man had a hold of it. Put his elbow on it and leaned into the car.

  Reggie felt a warning chill pass through him. ‘Let go.’

  But the big man didn’t let go. Instead he propped the door open with his vast buttock. He opened a grubby little notebook and poked a big sausagey finger at the page.

  ‘Albert Cann. Borrowed thirty. With interest it’s forty. You don’t pay up, Terry owns your house.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ said Reggie. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  The man sighed and pulled a piece of paper from another pocket. He unfolded a flyer and Reggie flinched—

  CRASH! And they’d all ducked. A brick through the window! Only the curtain had stopped it landing on the table. And for an instant he’d seen it on the floor. A brick with a flyer wrapped round it, secured by an elastic band.

  NEED MONEY?

  And then he’d run – run into the cold Christmas dark to find the vandal, the kids, the drunk. But there was nobody there. And when he’d got back the brick was on the coffee table, holding down bills, and the leaflet was gone.

  Threw it away, Albert had said . . . Tore it up and threw it away . . .

  Now Reggie knew he hadn’t. The idiot.

  He shook his head, as if to clear it. ‘The house isn’t even his,’ he said, ‘so the joke’s on you.’

  The big man carefully refolded the flyer and put it in his pocket. ‘Terry wants his money.’

  ‘Well, my father’s dead,’ said Reggie, ‘so tell Terry he can fuck right off. And you can fuck right off too, before I call the police.’

  But the big man didn’t fuck right off. Instead he straightened up and stared slowly around the car park. Then he bent down again and rested his beefy hands on his knees so he could look into the car.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ he sighed, ‘but I have to beat you up.’

  ‘You what ?’

  ‘It’s my job,’ he shrugged.

  ‘What?’ Reggie laughed, because this was surreal.

  ‘Cover your mouth so you don’t lose your teeth.’

  ‘Don’t be—’

  The man hit him hard on the nose. He fell backwards on to the passenger seat and looked up at the headlining and had no thoughts at all.

  Nothing.

  Then a fist gripped his jacket and lifted him back up.

  ‘Cover your mouth.’

  Reggie covered his mouth and the punch snapped his head back and he tasted blood and his arms went all floppy at his sides, but the man held on to his jacket – held him in place. Then he leaned right into the car. His huge curly head filled Reggie’s blurred vision and he couldn’t cover his mouth again because of his spaghetti arms, but the man didn’t hit him again. Instead he held up his phone and took photographs. One. Two.

  ‘Turn your head this way a bit. That’s it.’

  Three.

  ‘Forty grand,’ he said. ‘I’ll be in Ladbrokes. You got a week.’

  ‘How’m I s’posed to get forty grand in a week?’ slurred Reggie.

  ‘Not my problem,’ he said. ‘But if you go to the cops you’ll be sorry.’

  Then he let go of Reggie’s jacket and walked away.

  For a long time Reggie sat there with his chin on his chest and couldn’t think of much except to wonder how long the pain would last. Eventually he lifted his head and looked in the rear-view ­mirror. His eyes streamed with tears and there was blood coming from his nose, his mouth, his left cheek. All down his jacket and shirt.

  Slowly, slowly his arms began to work again. He touched his nose and winced. He felt his teeth with his tongue and none was loose, although they all ached. He waited for his breathing to return to normal.

  Finally Reggie wiped his hands on his jeans and started the car.

  Shit.

  He just sat there while it all sank in.

  Forty grand.

  Forty grand.

  The idiot. The selfish fucking idiot.

  Happy Christmas, Reg. Been meaning to get you a nice car for a long time.

  Reggie’s fury at Albert couldn’t stop his eyes filling as he thought of that moment. His father had not been a sentimental man – or a generous one – so the little red Mazda had felt like a lot more than a gift.

  It had felt like sorry.

  Sorry for leaving and sorry for coming back. Sorry for the chaos and the anger. Sorry for the lack of interest in schoolwork or hobbies. The lack of interest in him. Sorry for the slaps. All the casual slaps. Back of the legs, back of the head. Sorry for not caring, not calling, until he’d got sick and moved in with Skipper – and needed somebody else to pay the bills.

  The car hadn’t made any of it right. But it had made it better. Just the thought of his father saving for years, denying himself maybe, with this one goal in mind – a peace offering, a balm for wounds finally acknowledged.

  But now Reggie knew it wasn’t that at all. The car was just a way to show off at the Pig on the Hill, where he had driven Albert – in the Mazda – twice a week so he could get drunk and belligerent.

  See that car? Bought that for my lad for Christmas. Twenty-five grand! Top of the range. And I paid cash.

  Somebody else’s cash. He’d borrowed thirty grand and blown almost all of it on the car. And if that wasn’t stupid enough, he’d put up the house as collateral. Skipper ’s house! The house where Skipper had been born and grown up and got married and raised his baby son alone after his wife had left them both . . .

  Albert probably thought he was being clever. Conning the loan shark. Not caring whether he paid the money back, or what would happen if he didn’t. Not caring who was dragged into his bullshit. Never thinking of the consequences.

  Reggie looked at his battered face in the mirror.

  Well, these were the consequences . . .

  He should drive to the police station right now. Before the blood even dried. Give them a description. The big man wouldn’t be hard to find. Get his fat arse in a jail cell before the day was out . . .

  But Reggie met his own eyes in the mirror.

  Who was he kidding? He couldn’t tell anyone about this.

  Least of all the police.

  The Will

  The solicitor peered at Reggie’s face through wire-rimmed spectacles.

  ‘Oh dear, that looks painful.’

  She was right. It had been a week, but his nose still hurt and his eye had turned yellow.

  ‘Had a bump in the car,’ he said, which was not entirely a lie.

  Mrs Boucher showed him a seat and he took it, while she sat down at her desk.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

 
; ‘Thank you,’ said Reggie.

  ‘It must have been a terrible shock.’ Mrs Boucher stared at him as if it might elicit further information. But Reggie was here for the bottom line and didn’t need the niceties, so he only nodded.

  She must have been used to people wanting to cut to the chase, because she simply cleared her throat and got down to business. ‘Normally probate takes much longer than this to sort things out, but obviously after your call I put it on top of my pile.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Not at all,’ she nodded. ‘Actually this turned out to be quite speedy, for reasons that will become clear.’

  ‘Great,’ he said.

  ‘So,’ Mrs Boucher said, placing her palms on her big wooden desk, either side of a thin sheaf of papers, ‘the will!’

  She picked up the top sheet and perused it with what Reggie imagined was her will-reading face – as if she was seeing it for the first time. He wondered whether she practised that face in front of the mirror. It made him want to yank the will from her hands and scour it for the nitty-gritty.

  How much? How much howmuchhowmuchhowmuch?

  But she took her time.

  ‘He didn’t cut me out of it, did he?’ he laughed nervously.

  ‘No, no, on the contrary,’ she said, and his heart blipped with hope.

  Mrs Boucher read slowly, ‘I, Albert Charles Cann, leave all my worldly goods to my only son, Reginald Albert Cann, with love.’

  ‘That’s nice, isn’t it?’ said Mrs Boucher.

  Reggie nodded. He felt choked by relief. Losing the house – or even just having to tell Skipper what Albert had done – had been unthinkable to Reggie. And now he didn’t have to think about it. His father had been a petulant drunk but he had worked all his life and lived low on the hog. He had a pension. He had life insurance. And now it would pay off, thank God! There might even be a bit left over after the forty grand was paid off.

  ‘So what does that mean?’ he asked. ‘In real terms.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, and put down the will and picked up the next sheet of paper. ‘In real terms, unfortunately, not a lot.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Reggie, because he didn’t. ‘I don’t understand.’