Mark’s been drinking in the King’s Arms since he was fourteen, but tonight when he enters, the place goes as quiet as the saloon in a Western when a stranger comes to town. Just for a second, there’s no sound but the fruit machines, then the low rumble of conversation strikes up again. Unable to face the bar, Mark sends Nige up to get the beers in. When he comes back he’s got a pint in each hand and a copy of the Herald tucked under his arm. He spreads it on the table between them: Jack Marshall eyeballs them from the page.
‘He’s got a conviction for kiddy-fiddling and they’re letting him serve ice creams,’ he says. ‘Mate, who are we? We look after things ourselves. If things are wrong, we sort them out. Like with that Neil from the Lion, when we heard he was nicking bikes out of gardens.’
Mark turns the paper over and folds it in half, so that only a small column of football news and the crossword are visible. ‘This isn’t nicking bikes,’ he says. ‘Until we have evidence —’
‘And what if waiting for evidence means it’s too late?’ Nige demands. ‘What if it’s another kid? Say he has got something to do with this, and we’ve just let him carry on. How sick are we gonna feel?’
‘Enough!’ Mark erupts. Every head swivels in their direction, then turns away as quickly. Mark speaks in an urgent whisper: ‘Stop banging on at me! You think I’m not being eaten up by this? You know I can’t do nothing! You want to do something, fine.’
Nige lets the paper fall on to his lap and holds his hands up in surrender. ‘I’m sorry, mate,’ he says. ‘’Course. I understand.’
‘I haven’t got a thirst for this,’ says Mark, pushing his pint away. ‘I’m off home.’
‘No worries,’ says Nige. ‘I’ll give you a lift.’
There’s a huge toolbag on the passenger seat of Nige’s car. When Mark leans to move it, Nige almost sprints to intercept it.
‘What’ve you got in there, anyway?’ asks Mark as the bag sags in Nige’s hands. ‘A kitchen sink? You haven’t been taking scrap without permission again, have you, mate? You know we can’t afford to piss off the customers.’
‘No, no,’ says Nige, slinging it into the boot. ‘It’s only tools. Don’t worry. Your business is safe in my hands.’
He holds up the hands in question: they are large, slightly dirty, and calloused.
Mark grins. ‘Sooner I get back to work the better.’
Back at home, Nige heaves his bag into the garage, unzips it and pauses for a moment to look at the dirty blanket inside. Slowly, almost reverentially, he removes the blanket and unwraps it to reveal a crossbow.
The weapon is large and heavy. Although it is modern, made of matte black steel, there is something mediaeval about it. Unlike a gun, where the deadly mechanism is hidden on the inside, a crossbow, with its exposed wires and triggers, makes its intentions clear. There is no such thing as a rapid-fire crossbow. Ammunition has to be reloaded before each premeditated shot. You really have to know what you’re doing with a crossbow, and self-control is vital. You wouldn’t want it to get into the wrong hands.
That evening, Chloe and Dean are in the alleyway that threads around the back of her house, pressed together against the fence. Her face is buried in his T-shirt: his chin rests on the top of her head. A car door slams on the other side of the fence; she does not hear it.
‘This is the closest I’ve ever been to your house,’ says Dean. ‘I’ll get to go inside in about six months at this rate. Your dad ain’t that scary, is he?’
‘Let’s just say it’s not a coincidence that my last two boyfriends became my exes within about two hours of my dad finding out.’ She flicks a small smile at Dean’s chest, then says, ‘You been speaking to the others, about Jack?’
‘Yeah. I can’t believe it. Makes me feel all…’ He gives a theatrical shudder.
‘I’m gonna ring around everyone, tell them to boycott the shop,’ says Chloe. Dean nods wisely.
‘Look, I better go,’ he says.
They pull apart only to come together in a long kiss. Chloe’s blonde hair dances in the breeze. Dean smooths it down and tucks it behind her ears. She watches him walk the length of the alleyway to the street where the bike is parked up, hugging her arms to her chest, and blows him a kiss before his visor goes down. Then she turns around and walks slap bang into her father.
‘In the house,’ says Mark. ‘Now.’
Chloe obeys immediately, but her mouth is pursed in a mutinous rosebud. In the sitting room, she toys with her phone for security, sliding her fingers absently over the screen. Mark paces up and down, visibly trying to keep his cool.
‘Who was that?’ he asks her. ‘And don’t mess me about, ’cause we’re way beyond that in this house now.’
Chloe fights anger with truth. ‘His name’s Dean.’ She meets Mark’s eyes as he puts his fists on his hips.
‘How old is he?’
‘Seventeen.’ Chloe straightens her back, ready to face the eruption head on.
‘And he’s going out with a fifteen-year-old!’
‘Yes,’ she fires back. ‘Just like you did with Mum.’
‘Don’t get smart with me!’ shouts Mark, but he hasn’t got a leg to stand on and they both know it. He paces faster now, his breathing slow, deliberate and controlled. It doesn’t leave much room for talking, and in the end it’s Chloe who moves the conversation forward.
‘Just ask me, Dad,’ she sing-songs, ‘I know you’re dying to.’ She turns her face up to him, hiding nothing. Mark falters for a second. His daughter might be half his age and size, but she’s the closest thing he’s got to a true sparring partner.
‘You having sex with him?’
‘Yes,’ says Chloe. She can’t hide her pride. Mark looks at the wall as though he wants to punch it. He raises his hand as if to hit her but instead runs it down the back of his hair with laborious self-control. ‘And we use condoms, which is more than you and Mum did.’
Mark turns puce. ‘I’m not having you talking to me like this, Chloe.’
Chloe stands up to him now, literally. She points a finger at his chest.
‘I got you out of a police cell,’ she says. Mark frowns in confusion. ‘Because I’d seen how you and Becca Fisher were looking at each other. Now you want to talk about that too?’
The shock of being discovered shoves Mark roughly into an armchair. He is not qualified to set one toe on the moral high ground. He lets his head fall into his hands.
In one short conversation their relationship has been bent into a new shape. Chloe, sensing the fragility of the new order, shifts temporarily back into little-girl mode.
‘Are you going to tell Mum about me and Dean?’ she says in a small voice.
Mark lets out a long breath. ‘It’d be better coming from you,’ he suggests. ‘She’ll like it, you confiding in her.’
Chloe shakes her head. ‘I will, but not today. She’s got enough on her plate right now, what with finding out about you and Becca.’
Mark’s mortification deepens. ‘How’d you know she knows?’
‘Oh, come on, Dad. I’m not deaf. Let’s give her a bit of time for that to sink in before we go dropping any more bombshells.’ She looks around the house, registering Beth’s absence for the first time. ‘Where is she, anyway?’