Luke grinned at her from behind his fork as he chewed, his blue eyes sparkling. ?This is great, Mum.?

  Mark nodded in agreement. ?Wicked.?

  She smiled as she watched them eat.

  Ten minutes later the boys didn’t think their dinner was quite so wonderful anymore as the blisters started bursting on their lips and in their mouths. When Jimmy stood up, clutching at his chest, trying to wheeze out a scream, staring at her with those angry, terrified eyes, CaroleAnne decided to go lock herself in the bathroom. She didn’t know how long this would take, and it was better to be safe than sorry. After all, who knew better than she just how angry Jimmy Locke could get?

  She pushed past Mark, who’d slid to the floor and was trying to clutch at her leg, and went out to the hallway. She pushed down the handle on the front door, and after turning the key in the lock, pulled it out and held it tight. Luke had dragged himself into the hallway behind her, whimpering for her attention just like he had when he’d been a baby, before he could even crawl properly. His eyes were pleading at her to help him, to make the pain go away, and for a moment, beneath her haze of nothingness, she thought she felt something. Love even or maybe just pity, but whichever it was, in a second it was gone. He wasn’t her baby anymore; she didn’t know who this thing was, and she just wanted him gone the same as the others.

  Turning her back on him, she went into the downstairs bathroom and bolted the door quickly behind her and sat down heavily on the lid. Soon it would be over; she just

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  had to wait. A little patience was all that was required. She jumped a little as two walls away the kitchen table toppled over onto its side, the plates smashing beneath it. That would be Jimmy. So there still was life in the old dog yet. Never mind, there was nowhere for him to go, however much he wanted to have his little tantrum. The door was locked and she had a vague memory of cutting the telephone wire this afternoon.

  Luke was scratching weakly at the door in front of her, and she kicked out at him from the other side. Why couldn’t they just damn shitting well leave her in peace? That was all she wanted. Some peace and quiet. Some time to herself. Why couldn’t they give her that? Why did they have to be so fucking selfish?

  After a few frantic minutes, the scratching stopped. Hallelujah, praise the Lord. Shutting her eyes, she leaned to one side and rested her head on the wall. Maybe she should stay in here a little while longer, just to be sure. It had been such a long day, and she was so tired. Yes, maybe she should just sit here where it was nice and quiet; sit here with her eyes shut and rest. That would be nice.

  In less than a minute, she was asleep, snoring softly.

  It was pitch dark when she awoke with a start, her face still sweating from the nightmare. The first thing she noticed was the pain that seared through her arm. What the hell was it? And where was she? Trying to shake away the fuzz in her head, she reached up for the light switch. The brightness made her head rage, but ignoring it, she stared at her hand. There was a vague memory of bandaging it, but she had thought that was part of her dream. Just what the hell had been going on with her today?

  Suddenly she was terrified of opening the door. Why had she fallen asleep in the downstairs bathroom? She racked her brain for something that made sense. The last thing she remembered clearly was standing outside that house, trying to suck the splinter out of her finger. Surely

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  that tiny piece of wood couldn’t be causing all this pain? The rest of the day was a series of fragmented images. She’d been cooking, that much she did know. She’d been cooking something unusual. What was it? A curry? Yes, that’s what it was. She’d cooked a curry. A curry with a special ingredient.

  Leaning back against the wall, she moaned slightly as a memory engulfed her. She was in O’Neale’s, and Connor, no longer the spotty teenager who used to moon over her in corridors, was trying to warn her about something. Something she wanted, something that would ?do the job,?whatever that meant. Weed killer. Why would she want to buy weed killer?

  She’d needed a special ingredient, that’s why.

  ?Oh dear God,?she whispered softly. ?Oh my dear God, no.? Oblivious to the pain, she raised her shaking hand and pulled back the bolt. What was going to be out there? Was her baby lying out there? The tears were already forming in her eyes when she tentatively opened the door, but the blurriness of her vision didn’t stop her seeing her son far too clearly, lying in the hallway, one hand still reaching for her. His eyes were wide open, full of shock and surprise, and oh God, far too much pain.

  ?Oh Luke, oh my baby boy, what have I done to you, what have I done?? Falling to her knees she took his head and cradled it carefully, keening through her tears as she rocked backwards and forwards, smothering his cold face with kisses, calling for him to wake up, wishing for him to wake up, to wake up from this terrible nightmare that she’d infected them with. How long she sat there with the light from the open bathroom doorway shining down on their tragedy, she didn’t know and didn’t care, her grief uncontrollable as she whispered to her youngest baby, trying to comfort him in the dark.

  Eventually, when her legs felt as cold and numb as his did, she lifted her heavy head, and gazed along the corridor to the kitchen doorway. Gently kissing Luke

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  goodnight, she laid him back on the carpet and hauled herself to her feet. She could see Mark’s arm on the floor before she’d crossed the threshold. As she forced herself forward, her feet squeaked on the cheap linoleum. She sunk into a chair, reached down and took her eldest son’s hand, holding it against her cheek, trying to savor its smell, to remember its living scent. Beneath his gelled dark hair, his eyes were squeezed shut, as if he couldn’t bear the pain. His mouth and tongue, like Luke’s, were a mass of red sores and swollen blisters. ?Oh my babies,?she said. ?Oh my poor, poor babies.?She was no longer crying, the sheer desolation of what she felt inside too much for tears to keep up with.

  From behind the tumbled pine table she could see one of Jimmy’s work boots, lolling toward her. He was her husband. There had been some good times, hadn’t there? A long time ago, maybe, and maybe their love had died along the way, but he had given her beautiful boys, her sons, who sometimes drove her mad, but they had been all hers, her babies. They didn’t deserve this. None of them did.

  Unable to bear the thought of Luke alone in the corridor, she got up and carefully dragged him into the kitchen, whispering lovingly, laying him beside his brother. She wanted her family around her. She wanted them all to be together. One last time.

  Taking a black marker from one of the drawers, she went to the large upright fridge in the corner, pulling away the Post-it reminders from a life gone by. When it was a clear canvas of white, she lifted her hand to write. Those who needed to understand it would, as long as they got to read it. And if they didn’t? Well, she was just about past caring. Her eyes filling at the thought of the sheer ridiculous waste of it all, she wrote her simple message.

  TEACHER

  We got it Wrong

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  Her hand didn’t seem to write so well anymore, but the words were legible and that was all that mattered. She’d done her bit. Oh God, had she done her bit.

  She turned away from the fridge, picked her way over Jimmy to the stove and lifted the pan of congealed leftover curry. Taking a spoon from the draining board, she sat on the cool tile between Mark and Luke, resting her back against the uncomfortable cupboards. Placing the pan beside her, she pulled the boys’ bodies closer until their heads were resting on her lap. She stroked their hair for a while, a small sad smile dancing across her lips, before picking up the pan; and with a cool, clear head, she started to eat.

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  Jason’s shoulders had started to ache at seven-thirty that morning regular as clockwork, but he’d stayed silent as the two of them humped the boxes into the back of the van, the frosty air burning his face. He knew better than to complain. As Bob had pointed out on his first morning at Brown’s when Jason had mentioned blearily that getting up at 4:30 am to go the farmers’ markets was no way for a man to start his day, he was lucky to have the fucking job at all. He wouldn’t have employed him. The old man must be losing his marbles to want a parolee on his payroll. But then, Bob was the size of an ox and had been working for the fruit and veg shop pretty much since he was born. This was his fucking chosen career.

  Jason almost laughed at that thought until the truth of the grunting giant’s words hit home. He was lucky to have this job. And to be lucky to have a job humping sacks of potatoes and endless crates of apples and carrots, when you were in your thirties was a pretty shit position to be in. That was the fucker of it he couldn’t deny. So for the past six weeks, he’d worked silently, doing what he was

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  told, and keeping his endless aches and pains to himself. He didn’t want Bob to tell old Mr. Brown that he wasn’t up to the job, even if his thin, lanky frame was telling him otherwise.

  At least today it was Bob’s turn to do the van run. Brown’s did a good trade in supplying restaurants, and also delivering to houses in the small surrounding villages. The last crate stacked, Jason slammed the van doors shut and slapped the side, letting Bob know it was all his from here. He watched as it pulled away down the tight alley at the back of the small warehouse behind the shop, and waited until Bob had turned the corner before pulling a cigarette out of his overalls pocket and lighting it, leaning gratefully against the wall. A precious hour to himself before the shop staff arrived.

  The smell of diesel hung in the cold, still air. Yeah, Brown had done well out of the deliveries, and Jason had a good idea that that was why the old bugger had given him the job when no one else was exactly eager to employ him. The deliveries had, after all, been Jason’s idea, back when he was fourteen and the acquisition of a Raleigh Chopper with a Sturmey Archer three-speed gear selector was his ultimate aim. He had to have one. He had to have one so badly it hurt. His first sight of one of those bikes had made him feel alive for the first time since all that shit at Gina’s place. Yeah, the Raleigh Chopper. The king of bikes. His stomach would churn with envy whenever one sped by. And that was how he ended up with the summer job at Brown’s.

  The old man had been taking a chance then, given that Jason’s dad was hardly a pillar of society—like father like son—but Jason hadn’t let him down. He’d worked all hours, sweeping and cleaning, moving sacks that seemed twice his weight—that still seemed twice his weight— carrying old ladies’ baskets for them, until finally, he had enough money, with the little bit his mum had thrown in. But during those few months of what felt like

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  backbreaking labor, carrying the cut-out picture of his prize in the back pocket of his jeans to keep him going, it was he who had mentioned to the not yet old Mr. Brown that the business could be expanded by delivering, and that no shopkeeper could feel secure because ‘the age of the supermarket’ was approaching. Brown had laughed him away, but the idea must have stuck because within a few months, he’d tentatively bought his first van.

  And the rest, as they say, is history. Mr. Brown expanded his business, and Jason got his chopper with the three-speed gear selector that nearly castrated him on several occasions.

  He stubbed his cigarette out and went back into the small warehouse to make himself a coffee. He still had plenty of work to do, get the shop stocked up and the outside display ready, but caffeine was what he needed first. Nicotine and caffeine. A man’s two best friends.

  By ten-thirty Bob wasn’t yet back, and the shop was open with its usual steady stream of regular customers. Different day, different regulars. The people of Streatford were creatures of habit, invariably shopping on the same day of each week. Jason was pottering about in the warehouse without much to do, although he was sure that when Bob got back, he’d find something. Bob always found some unnecessary job for Jason to do. Any chance to exert his limited authority.

  The phone on the wall rang, and he picked it up. It was Jan at the register. ?Can you bring me out another box of Cox’s Pippins? We’re having a bit of a run on them this morning.?

  ?No problem.?Picking up a small box along the left wall, he walked down the small corridor and into the warmth of the shop, heading over to the depleted straw tray of apples, and started refilling it, keeping the fruit in its purple tissue-paper wrapping. The contrast of color always made the apples look crisp and fresh, even if they had been out back for longer than they should. This was

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  one of his ideas that had really gotten Bob’s back up, especially as the old man had gone along with it. He was going to have to learn to keep his big mouth shut, or else Bob’s general dislike would turn to hate, and he was getting too old for making new enemies.

  The box empty, he turned around to head back to the warehouse, and almost knocked over the man standing behind him. ?I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there. Are you okay??

  The man smiled back at him, and Jason’s heart sunk. It was Rob. Fucking Robert Black standing there in a casually expensive cashmere sweater, head to toe oozing success, staring at him in his too big Brown’s overalls. Jesus. Just what he fucking needed. For a second, he thought he might be able to slip away, and then Rob’s head tilted quizzically. ?Jason??

  Well, well. The bigshot recognized him after all these years. Should he feel flattered? Trying to swallow his bitterness and embarrassment, he smiled. ?Yeah, it’s me. I heard you were back in town. How are you??

  Rob shrugged. ?Okay. What about you??

  Jason’s eyes slipped away a little, focusing on old Judge Matthews checking the tomatoes just outside the shop, before they came back to Rob. ?Same as ever. No wiser, just older.?

  Rob laughed. ?Yeah, that just about sums me up, too.?

  Maybe, except you’re a shitload richer with it, Jason thought. But then, he could hardly blame Rob for the mess he’d made of his own life, no matter how much he wanted to. There was a moment’s awkward silence before Jason’s curiosity got the better of him. ?What made you come back here, Rob? The rest of us dream of getting away. You could go anywhere in the world if you’ve had enough of the big city. Why the fuck come back to a shithole like Streatford??

  This time it was Rob who looked away slightly. ?I don’t really know. I guess it’s home, that’s all.?

  The old man had come in from outside and was reaching

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  for some bananas on a hook above where they were talking.

  ?Let me get them for you, Judge Matthews. How many would you like? It’s three normally, isn’t it??The old man nodded, as Jason put them into a paper bag.

  Putting them into his green plastic basket, he looked up and smiled. ?Thank you, young man.?He looked at Rob for a second and then his smile froze as he glanced backward and forward between the two men, who were smiling back at him. He didn’t move.

  ?Are you okay??Jason asked, gently touching the fragile man’s arm. The judge pulled away, muttering under his breath, and started to move to the register, glancing nervously over his shoulder, barely waiting for his change before scurrying out of the shop.

  The strangeness of it broke the tension between the two men for a second, as they looked at each other with raised eyebrows. ?He must finally be going ga-ga.?

  ?Did you call him Judge Matthews? Is that really him? God, I didn’t recognize him. He’s looking so old.?Rob was still staring at the space the judge had vacated.

  ?Yeah, well time didn’t stop here just because you left, Robster.?The bitterness in Jason’s voice, combined with his involuntary use of the old childhood nickname, must have hit a nerve, because Rob looked as if he’d just been slapped.

  ?You’re right. I just didn’t expect to see him like that. I guess I just always thought he’d go on and on exactly as he was. He was one of those kind of men. Like an invincible army brigadier or something. Stupid, huh??

  Jason smiled, wondering where this conversation was going, and not wanting to rekindle any long-dead friendships. Some things were better left alone. ?Look, I’d better get back into the warehouse. I’ve got tons of stuff to do.??

  ?Sure, of course.?Rob was rummaging in his back pocket and pulled out a small notebook and tiny pen. He grinned sheepishly. ?Tools of the trade. I take them with

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  me everywhere in case any lightning bolts of inspiration strike. That’s the theory anyway.?He scribbled a number down and tore out the sheet. ?I’m at my mum’s old house. That’s the number. Maybe we could go for a beer or something one day??

  Rob still had the notebook open, and Jason found himself reciting his cell number. Oh Lord, Robster wants to exorcise his demons. He folded up the piece of paper and slipped it in his overalls. ?Yeah, maybe.?

  Nodding farewell, he went back to his sanctuary of the warehouse and lit a cigarette before pulling out the scrap of paper and staring at it as he smoked. There was no way he was ever going to call that number, and he had a feeling it was the same for Rob. The time to talk was far too long ago, and now they were too grown up to know where to start. The past was done. It was best left alone. His face in a frown, he balled up the paper and tossed it into the bin.

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  When he’d been in London, Rob considered it a good day’s work if he’d gotten a couple of thousand words down by about two. Then he’d normally call it a day and start planning his evening’s entertainment. Although he was giving up the partying, he’d expected his writing output to have stayed at about the same level now that he was in Streatford. So he was somewhat surprised to see that it was four o’clock when the ringing phone dragged him out of the world in his laptop and that he’d done just over four thousand words. He had a sneaking suspicion that they were damn good words, too.