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  that the laughter had turned to tears, tears that wouldn’t stop, tears that threatened to choke him, and he felt Jason slowly sitting down next to him, uncertain of what to do, clumsy with the emotion. Eventually, Rob felt Jase’s slight arm around his hunched, hot shoulders, the gentle pressure slowly calming his emotions, slowing the flood to a stream. And there they stayed, sitting like lords of the flies amidst the ruins of Rob’s perfect life, until his mother got home.

  Crouching against the wall in the empty room, the musty scent, lonely after all these years making way for its one-time visitor, Rob cried for the second time that week, cried for the boy he had been, for his father who died of shame, misunderstood in an unforgiving era, abandoned and alone in the company of strangers. A man whose heart attack had been a relief to his family. Had been a relief to his son. Jesus, Dad, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. The thought felt useless, the sentiment too late. He wiped his eyes. He’d gone twenty years or more without shedding a single tear and now that he was home, it seemed they wouldn’t stop. Christ, you were a shit as a child, and you’re sure as hell a bigger shit now. Some things just don’t change, do they? You’re not such a bigshot now, are you, Robster?

  He could hear Jason in his head voicing his internal thoughts, not the stranger that he’d met the other day, the Jason-in-disguise, but the Jason from that day, from this room, the Jason who’d been his best buddy, the best buddy a boy could ask for. The Jason who would never, ever have done that terrible thing on the hot last day of term in the classroom, if Rob hadn’t driven him to it. The Jason who had tried to help Teacher when he and Carrie had just looked on in horror. The Jason who was special and funny. The Jason he’d thrown away out of shame by closing himself off, by put-downs and barbed remarks. By the kind of cruelty that only kids are capable of.

  Yeah, that Jason in his head was right; the twelve-year-old Jason who never minced his words. He was a shit. A

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  Grade-A shit, through and through. What the hell had he been thinking, coming home? Facing his demons? What the hell good was that now? Couldn’t help him or Carrie or his dad or even goddamn poor Teacher.

  Suddenly he was laughing, the tears evaporating, welcomed by the musty air. And he’d thought coming up here might make him feel better? The irony was a little too much and he snorted into his hands, emotionally exhausted. Kill the self-pity, he told himself, his own voice this time. A bastard you may be, but hell, you’re a rich one. Life could have turned out worse for you.

  He hauled himself to his feet, and switched the light off, eager to get down to the present. He’d had enough of the past for one day, and as he slid the lid over the attic a few minutes later, he got the sneaking suspicion that the past had had enough of him, too.

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  Judge Matthews had quite forgotten his arthritis as he leapt his skeletal, pajama-clad body out of the bed and stood barefoot on the cold carpet. He smiled and twitched nervously as he chewed his fingernails, staring at the exposed sheets that glowed white in the moonlight filtering in through the gap in the curtains. He knew he should turn the light on just to confirm it, but he also knew what he’d find. Ants. Ants everywhere. He absently scratched himself. Ants in his pants. The thought made him giggle slightly, although the feel of his sharp hipbone under the thin cotton gave a small part of his mind, a part that wasn’t quite yet bug obsessed, a moment of concern. He really should try to force himself to eat something tomorrow. He’d go out and eat something. That would probably be safest. Yes, that’s what he’d do.

  He couldn’t bear to eat anything at home, not after the ?day before yesterday, when he’d found they’d invaded every cereal box in his cupboards, and the milk bottle, although securely fastened with the new-fangled plastic lid, had been lined with hundreds of tiny, black drowned

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  corpses, as it stood cold in the fridge. He had a vague memory of throwing up after that, and somehow from then until now, food hadn’t been high on his list of priorities.

  Staring down in the darkness, he was sure he could see them scurrying around his mattress, taunting him, daring him to take action. He licked his lips as his eyes darted quickly, trying to keep up with them. Well, take action he would. He was a judge, had been a judge, and no infestation was going to get the better of him, no matter where it came from. Feeling for his slippers, neatly placed beside his bed, he left the light off—no warnings would be given in this war—and felt his way, stumbling slightly into the hallway. He pulled the door shut firmly behind him and then flicked the switch, muttering to himself as the stairway illuminated. There was no trace of them here, but then how they’d gotten into his shower yesterday, he still couldn’t understand. He shivered with the memory of standing beneath that stream of clear water, of tilting his head back in the spray, and then gagging as the water turned into a black stream. A black stream that wanted to get inside him, inside his mouth. A black stream of madness.

  He grunted as he turned on the kitchen light and switched on the kettle that he’d taken to keeping full, and boiling every half an hour or so in case of emergencies. Madness. Yes, that’s what Daisy would call it. He’d seen it in the unhappy expression in her eyes yesterday. She thought his mind had finally caught up with his degenerating body, and maybe it had, maybe it had. In many ways he hoped she was right, madness he could live with, but the ants—the source of the ants—he couldn’t.

  He’d gone next door the morning after he’d first noticed his visitors, when things were still normal, to see where they were coming from. That was when the world first started to slip off-kilter, not in any noticeable way, just the tiniest slide to the left or right. There were no ants in Daisy’s garden, you see. No ants at all. They searched

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  and searched but found nothing, Daisy regarding him thoughtfully with those sharp blue eyes, the intelligence there so often missed by those who only saw her wizened face. So if there were no ants in Daisy’s garden, how were they still coming through the fence to his? Where were they coming from? Slightly embarrassed, he’d left her and gone home, confused, to stare at the inhabitants of his patio through the protection of the glass.

  The kettle was starting to throw out steam, and too impatient to let it switch itself off, Ernest unplugged it and headed back to the stairs.

  After the incident with the milk, something had cracked. He had still been in his slippers when he headed out, this time going around the side of Daisy’s house to where her fence ran alongside the path leading down to the river, the outside fence that was guaranteed to get vandalized and daubed on at least once every summer. He’d seen his breath misting in front of him as he watched the procession coming up the path with mildly hysterical disbelief. They were coming up the path like a tiny army, trudging relentlessly forward. As they reached his feet, they made a sharp right and went under Daisy’s fence. They’re tunneling, he’d thought in numb amazement, stifling the first of the unconscious fits of giggles that were to become such a part of his life. They’re tunneling under her lawn to get to mine. He stared at the thin procession until his toes became numb, and then slowly turned and walked against the tide, his head down, studying his silent adversaries. Where were they coming from? Where were the little bastards coming from?

  It was when he’d crossed the river—how far were they traveling?—that he’d first felt the shiver of terrified anticipation, and then, when his freezing form finally came to a stop outside those old, forgotten iron gates, he realized?that he’d known; it was crazy, but he’d known all along that the trail would lead here, to this house, to Syracousse.

  He’d met Daisy on his way home, while he was still

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  somewhere between laughing and crying. She’d taken the scenic walk back from the shops, and she looked at him, that sadness in her eyes, in her whole face, as she took in his slippers, and his laughing and his lack of a coat, and had asked him if everything was okay. That had made him laugh even harder, envious of Daisy looking so right with her Budgen’s shopping and her red, sensible coat and matching gloves, when everything was so completely not okay, his world fracturing around him. ?I’ve been on an ant hunt,?he told her as they walked, she solemn and he wiping tears away from his cheeks with crippled hands. ?They’re coming from Toombes Meadow. They’re coming all the way from Syracousse to see me. Should I feel flattered??

  Daisy had said nothing as he entertained himself with thoughts of insanity. ?I’ll pop in tomorrow. Have a cup of tea.? He had nodded and waved in agreement before shutting his door on her. And true to her word, she had called around, he thought as he progressed back up toward the bedroom. He hadn’t let her in, of course. He had been far too busy at work in the bathroom for any socializing, but she had rung the bell several times. Daisy always had been a woman of her word. A fine woman.

  Opening the bedroom door, this time he did reach for the light switch, flooding the room with the yellow glare. He wasn’t surprised to see the mass of black that covered his mattress, frozen in the shock of the brightness. Tutting to himself, he approached and started to pour, the satisfaction of genocide somewhat tainted by an itch that started in his ear. He couldn’t quite reach it with the little finger of his spare hand.

  His bed soaked, he turned to fetch a blanket from the airing cupboard, before heading back downstairs to sleep the rest of the night on the sofa. He dug his finger deeper and scratched.

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  It had taken Jason all of ten minutes during his lunch break to empty his meager savings account and spend it. He’d parted with most of what was left of his wages, too, leaving himself twenty quid to get through the four days until payday. No more living the high life for me then, he thought as he turned onto the lane that led to the rear entrance of Brown’s, The Family Greengrocer. Thirty-seven years old and twenty pounds to my name. Maybe it’s time to sign up for Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? But then again, maybe not. No amount of money could be worth letting that smug bastard patronize you on national television. He picked up his overalls from the shelf where he’d dumped them on his way out, and started tugging them over his boots and jeans.

  Bob was leaning his heavy frame on a stack of crates by the far wall, slurping up Chunky soup; one with bits of pasta in it. He didn’t wait until he’d swallowed before?speaking, eyeing Jason with curious suspicion. ?What did you take your overalls off for to go and get your lunch? You’ve only been gone quarter of an hour at most.?

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  Jason looked at the other man for a second, and silently wondered what it was that he’d done with his life that warranted having to work with Bob. His merciless brain fired several answers back at him, none of which he could deny. Looking down, he zipped up the green canvas material.

  ?I had things to do.?He hoped his curt, soft tone would shut Bob up, but then his colleague had never been one to understand the nuances of language, or even take a hint for that matter. Bob snorted as if Jason had said the most ridiculous thing in the world, shaking his head slightly as he scooped another spoon load into his still full mouth.

  Jason’s anger was beginning to rise. This wasn’t the day to start pissing him off. He really, really wasn’t in the mood. And who the hell did this ignorant oaf think he was, looking down on him? How could someone be that stupid and so far up their own arse all at the same time? His smile was thin and tight, his eyes colder than they’d been in a long time, probably since the days when he’d fight anyone who was willing to throw some hard punches back.

  His insides had been screwed up tight since he’d first heard about Carrie, screwed up with grief and not a little fear. It seemed that the scars on his hands and arms had been itching ever since he’d read her damned suicide message in the paper, itching just enough to keep him remembering, to keep him looking at that piece of notebook he’d pulled out of the bin, the one with Robster’s phone number on it, the writing blurred by thrown-away coffee. And then there was the business he’d just taken care of. That awful bleak business. Yep, all in all, his mind had been pretty fried by the events of this month, scrambled enough for him to throw his carefully applied diplomacy of the past few weeks out of the window. He paused for a second, enjoying what he was about to do, before he spoke.

  His voice was soft and lilting, as if he were talking to a slow child. ?It may surprise you to learn that overalls

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  aren’t always the most appropriate things to be seen in. Unlike you, I am not an ignorant fuck, and I happen to be aware of certain social protocols. Unlike you, I don’t get so excited over the prospect of spending the rest of my life lugging cabbages around that I have to go home and wank over my uniform.?He raised one eyebrow at Bob, whose mouth was wide open, the half-chewed pasta on display, mangled pieces threatening to fall out of the yawning hole. Jason’s smile widened. ?I take it that is what those stains are? I’ve often wondered but never wanted to ask. It all comes back to social protocols, you see.?

  Bob’s jaw seemed to be moving, not chewing, but a jerky up-and-down action, as if it were begging his brain to give it something to say. Something, anything. Jason noticed that the big man’s grip had tightened around the mug so hard that his knuckles were white. Any moment now it’s going to implode with the pressure. He’s going to crush it like a tin can and then he’s going to crush me. Oh boy, you really picked a good one this time. This has got to be up there in the top ten of fights with no chance of winning.

  It seemed to Jason in those few tense moments as he held the big man’s stare that the walls of the warehouse were breathing with him, panting in anticipation of the blood to come. Ready for it. Tired of its vegetarian diet. Any moment now, any moment now he’s going to come at me. He knew the signs; he knew how long the insult would take to filter into that dull brain of Bob’s. His body crackled, tensing as his mind raced, mentally running through what was in the room, what he could get to, that would help him against the Goliath he’d pissed off. He really didn’t think cabbages were going to do the trick.

  The buzzer rang loudly three times, and both men jumped, the tension fracturing, sucked away for a second by their sharp intakes of breath. Bob dropped the mug, his brain unable to deal with the two pressing issues— wanting to kill Jason so badly and the buzzer. Three times means trouble.

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  ?Shit!?The china smashed at his feet, the glutinous contents splattering all over the lower half of the overalls that started this crap in the first place. ?Fucking shit!?

  Jason slowly strolled past him, his heart still pounding with adrenaline. ?I’ll go deal with it. You stay here and clear up your mess.?Going into the shop, he let out a long sigh. Okay, so he was still going to have to face up to the confrontation, but at least he had a reprieve. And from what he knew of men like Bob, once the moment was gone, they weren’t that likely to use their fists. Nope, he’ll just settle for getting you fired instead. This is really turning out to be something of a day. And it was just about to get worse.

  Coming through the side doorway, he saw Mary’s wide eyes beckoning him from behind the register, before flicking away to her left and then back again. The only person near her was one of the old biddies from the sheltered housing community, so at least she wasn’t getting robbed. One close brush with physical violence was enough for one day. He wasn’t as young and feisty as he used to be. So what the hell had spooked her enough to buzz the alarm?

  Walking past the register to be able to see whatever it was Mary and the old woman were staring at, his brow furrowed as he turned around the L-shaped wall. Three customers passed him as they scurried out, abandoning their groceries, unpurchased, at the open doorway. He barely noticed them. Was that Judge Matthews? Could that really be the judge?

  The man, the tramp, at the far end of the shop was eagerly devouring a peach, tossing the stone to the ground as he reached for another, pieces of the fleshy meat clinging to his chin as the juices ran down his scrawny neck. There were already four pits abandoned by his slippered feet. He’s wearing slippers. And are those pyjamas peering out from under the tan overcoat? Old man Madness has finally got him. Jason watched in silence for a few minutes before he cautiously moved forward.

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  He noticed that the judge was muttering to himself as he ate, spraying a fine mist of fruit with every word, and his eyes darted feverishly around him, wide and bloodshot. I hope I go before this gets me, Jason thought as he brought himself within two feet of the tragic old man. I wouldn’t want anyone to see me like this. To remember me like this. But then, he considered, it wasn’t really likely anyone would remember him anyway, not like they would the judge. The judge was part of Streatford. He’d been there forever.

  Jason’s nose crinkled as he came face to face with the grunting, slurping man. Jesus, he stank. A mixture of stale sweat, bad breath, pee and God only knew what else radiated from him in a warm, nauseating glow. How long has he been without a bath? And just how long has he been wearing those fucking pyjamas? Although they were face to face, the judge seemed to be staring right through him, and Jason gently touched his arm.

  ?You’ll make yourself ill if you eat too many of those, Your Honor. Why don’t you come around to the back and I’ll make you a nice cup of tea? Warm you up a bit. It’s my lunch break, and I could use the company.? His voice was so different to the one of only moments ago when speaking to Bob. There was no latent aggression here, no sarcasm, just gentle compassion. This voice belonged to a different Jason; a Jason who’d almost forgotten he’d once existed, so much so that the present Jason didn’t even notice he was there.