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Deft　and　skilful　in　all　her　movements；　she　stripped　the　wrapping　from　a　sterile　syringe；　straightened　out　Tessa’s　pale；　mole…strewn　arm　and　slid　the　needle　into　the　crook。

‘I’m　taking　Stuart　into　Yarvil　tomorrow　night；’　Tessa　said；　looking　up　at　the　ceiling。　‘To　get　him　a　suit　for　the　funeral。　I　can’t　stand　the　scene　there’ll　be；　if　he　tries　to　go　in　jeans。　Colin’ll　go　berserk。’

She　was　trying　to　divert　her　own　thoughts　from　the　dark；　mysterious　liquid　flowing　up　into　the　little　plastic　tube。　She　was　afraid　that　it　would　betray　her；　that　she　had　not　been　as　good　as　she　should　have　been；　that　all　the　chocolate　bars　and　muffins　she　had　eaten　would　show　up　as　traitorous　glucose。

Then　she　thought　bitterly　that　it　would　be　much　easier　to　resist　chocolate　if　her　life　were　less　stressful。　Given　that　she　spent　nearly　all　her　time　trying　to　help　other　people；　it　was　hard　to　see　muffins　as　so　very　naughty。　As　she　watched　Parminder　labelling　vials　of　her　blood；　she　found　herself　hoping；　though　her　husband　and　friend　might　think　it　heresy；　that　Howard　Mollison　would　triumph；　and　prevent　an　election　happening　at　all。

V
Simon　Price　left　the　printworks　on　the　stroke　of　five　every　day　without　fail。　He　had　put　in　his　hours；　and　that　was　that；　home　was　waiting；　clean　and　cool；　high　on　the　hill；　a　world　away　from　the　perpetual　clank　and　whirr　of　the　Yarvil　plant。　To　linger　in　the　factory　after　clocking…off　time　（though　now　a　manager；　Simon　had　never　ceased　to　think　in　the　terms　of　his　apprenticeship）　would　constitute　a　fatal　admission　that　your　home　life　was　lacking　or；　worse；　that　you　were　trying　to　brown…nose　senior　management。

Today；　though；　Simon　needed　to　make　a　detour　before　going　home。　He　met　up　with　the　gum…chewing　forklift　driver　in　the　car　park；　and　together　they　drove　through　the　darkening　streets；　with　the　boy　giving　directions；　into　the　Fields；　actually　passing　the　house　in　which　Simon　had　grown　up。　He　had　not　been　past　the　place　for　years；　his　mother　was　dead；　and　he　had　not　seen　his　father　since　he　was　fourteen　and　did　not　know　where　he　was。　It　unsettled　and　depressed　Simon　to　see　his　old　home　with　one　window　boarded　over　and　the　grass　ankle…deep。　His　late　mother　had　been　house　proud。

The　youth　told　Simon　to　park　at　the　end　of　Foley　Road；　then　got　out；　leaving　Simon　behind；　and　headed　towards　a　house　of　particularly　squalid　appearance。　From　what　Simon　could　see　by　the　light　of　the　nearest　streetlamp；　it　seemed　to　have　a　pile　of　filth　heaped　beneath　a　downstairs　window。　It　was　only　now　that　Simon　asked　himself　how　sensible　it　had　been　to　e　and　pick　up　the　stolen　puter　in　his　own　car。　These　days；　surely；　they　would　have　CCTV　on　the　estate；　to　keep　an　eye　on　all　the　little　thugs　and　hoodies。　He　glanced　around；　but　he　could　not　see　any　cameras；　nobody　seemed　to　be　looking　at　him　except　a　fat　woman　who　was　openly　staring　through　one　of　the　small；　square　institutional…looking　windows。　Simon　scowled　at　her；　but　she　continued　to　watch　him　as　she　smoked　her　cigarette；　so　he　screened　his　face　with　his　hand；　glaring　through　the　windscreen。

His　passenger　was　already　emerging　from　the　house；　straddling　a　little　as　he　walked　back　towards　the　car；　carrying　the　boxed　puter。　Behind　him；　in　the　doorway　of　the　house　he　had　left；　Simon　saw　an　adolescent　girl　with　a　small　boy　at　her　feet；　who　stepped　out　of　sight　as　he　watched；　dragging　the　child　with　her。

Simon　turned　the　key　in　the　ignition；　revving　the　engine　as　the　gum…chewer　came　nearer。

‘Careful；’　said　Simon；　leaning　across　to　unlock　the　passenger　door。　‘Just　put　it　down　here。’

The　boy　set　the　box　down　on　the　still…warm　passenger　seat。　Simon　had　intended　to　open　it　and　check　that　it　was　what　he　had　paid　for；　but　a　growing　sense　of　his　own　imprudence　overrode　the　desire。　He　contented　himself　with　giving　the　box　a　shove：　it　was　too　heavy　to　move　easily；　he　wanted　to　get　going。

‘You　all　right　if　I　leave　you　here？’　he　called　loudly　to　the　boy；　as　if　he　was　already　speeding　away　from　him　in　the　car。

‘Can　you　give　us　a　lift　up　to　the　Crannock　Hotel？’

‘Sorry；　mate；　I’m　going　the　other　way；’　said　Simon。　‘Cheers。’

Simon　accelerated。　In　his　rear…view　mirror　he　saw　the　boy　standing　there；　looking　outraged；　saw　his　lips　form　the　words　‘fuck　you！’　But　Simon　didn’t　care。　If　he　cleared　out　quickly；　he　might　avoid　his　number　plate　being　captured　on　one　of　those　grainy　black　and　white　films　they　played　back　on　the　news。

He　reached　the　bypass　ten　minutes　later；　but　even　after　he　had　left　Yarvil　behind；　quitted　the　dual　carriageway　and　driven　up　the　hill　towards　the　ruined　abbey；　he　was　ruffled　and　tense；　and　experienced　none　of　the　satisfaction　that　was　usually　his　when　he　crested　the　peak　in　the　evenings　and　caught　the　first　glimpse　of　his　own　house；　far　across　the　hollow　where　Pagford　lay；　a　tiny　white　handkerchief　on　the　opposite　hillside。

Though　she　had　been　home　barely　ten　minutes；　Ruth　already　had　dinner　on　and　was　laying　the　table　when　Simon　carried　the　puter　inside；　they　kept　early　hours　in　Hilltop　House；　as　was　Simon’s　preference。　Ruth’s　exclamations　of　excitement　at　the　sight　of　the　box　irritated　her　husband。　She　did　not　understand　what　he　had　been　through；　she　never　understood　that　there　were　risks　involved　in　getting　stuff　cheap。　For　her　part；　Ruth　sensed　at　once　that　Simon　was　in　one　of　the　tightly　wound　moods　that　often　presaged　an　explosion；　and　coped　the　only　way　she　knew　how：　by　jabbering　brightly　about　her　day；　in　the　hope　that　the　mood　would　dissolve　once　he　had　food　inside　him；　and　as　long　as　nothing　else　happened　to　irritate　him。

Promptly　at　six　o’clock；　by　which　time　Simon　had　unboxed　the　puter　and　discovered　that　there　was　no　instruction　manual；　the　family　sat　down　to　eat。

Andrew　could　tell　that　his　mother　was　on　edge；　because　she　was　making　random　conversation　with　a　familiar；　artificially　cheery　note　in　her　voice。　She　seemed　to　think；　despite　years　of　contrary　experience；　that　if　she　made　the　atmosphere　polite　enough；　his　father　would　not　dare　shatter　it。　Andrew　helped　himself　to　shepherd’s　pie　（made　by　Ruth；　and　defrosted　on　work　nights）　and　avoided　eye　contact　with　Simon。　He　had　more　interesting　things　to　think　about　than　his　parents。　Gaia　Bawden　had　said　‘hi’　to　him　when　he　had　e　face　to　face　with　her　outside　the　biology　lab；　said　it　automatically　and　casually；　but　had　not　looked　at　him　once　all　lesson。

Andrew　wished　he　knew　more　about　girls；　he　had　never　got　to　know　one　well　enough　to　fathom　how　their　minds　worked。　The　yawning　gap　in　his　knowledge　had　not　mattered　much　until　Gaia　had　walked　onto　the　school　bus　for　the　first　time；　and　provoked　in　him　a　laser…sharp　interest　focused　on　her　as　an　individual；　a　quite　different　feeling　to　the　wide　and　impersonal　fascination　that　had　been　intensifying　in　him　over　several　years；　concerned　with　the　sprouting　of　breasts　and　the　appearance　of　bra　straps　through　white　school　shirts；　and　his　slightly　squeamish　interest　in　what　menstruation　actually　entailed。

Fats　had　girl　cousins　who　sometimes　came　to　visit。　Once；　going　into　the　Walls’　bathroom　right　after　the　prettiest　of　them　had　used　it；　Andrew　had　found　a　transparent　Lil…Lets　wrapper　lying　beside　the　bathroom　bin。　This　actual；　physical　evidence　that　a　girl　in　his　vicinity　was　having　a　period　there　and　then　was；　to　thirteen…year…old　Andrew；　akin　to　the　sighting　of　a　rare　et。　He　had　had　enough　sense　not　to　tell　Fats　what　he　had　seen　or　found　or　how　exciting　a　discovery　it　had　been。　Instead　he　had　picked　up　the　wrapper　between　his　fingernails；　dropped　it　quickly　into　the　bin；　then　washed　his　hands　more　vigorously　than　he　had　ever　washed　them　in　his　life。

Andrew　spent　a　lot　of　time　staring　at　Gaia’s　Facebook　page　on　his　laptop。　It　was　almost　more　intimidating　than　she　was　in　person。　He　spent　hours　poring　over　photographs　of　the　people　that　she　had　left　behind　in　the　capital。　She　came　from　a　different　world：　she　had　black　friends；　Asian　friends；　friends　with　names　he　could　never　have　pronounced。　There　was　a　photograph　of　her　in　a　swimsuit　that　was　burnt　into　his　brain；　and　another　of　her；　leaning　up　against　a　filthily　good…looking　coffee…skinned　boy。　He　had　no　spots；　and　actual　stubble。　By　a　process　of　careful　examination　of　all　her　messages；　Andrew　had　concluded　that　this　was　an　eighteen…year…old　called　Marco　de　Luca。　Andrew　stared　at　Marco’s　and　Gaia’s　munications　with　the　concentration　of　a　code…breaker；　unable　to　decide　whether　they　indicated　a　continuing　relationship　or　not。

His　Facebook　browsing　was　often　tinged　with　anxiety；　because　Simon；　whose　understanding　of　how　the　inter　worked　was　limited；　and　who　instinctively　mistrusted　it　as　the　only　area　of　his　sons’　life　where　they　were　freer　and　more　at　ease　than　he；　would　sometimes　erupt　unexpectedly　into　their　bedrooms　to　check　what　they　were　viewing。　Simon　claimed　that　he　was　making　sure　that　they　were　not　running　up　huge　bills；　but　Andrew　knew　it　to　be　one　more　manifestation　of　his　father’s　need　to　exert　control；　and　the　cursor　hovered　constantly　over　the　box　that　would　shut　the　page　whenever　he　was　perusing　Gaia’s　details　online。

Ruth　was　still　rattling　from　topic　to　topic；　in　a　fruitless　attempt　to　make　Simon　produce　more　than　surly　monosyllables。

‘Ooooh；’　she　said　suddenly。　‘I　forgot：　I　spoke　to　Shirley　today；　Simon；　about　you　maybe　standing　for　the　Parish　Council。’

The　words　hit　Andrew　like　a　punch。

‘You’re　standing　for　the　council？’　he　blurted。

Simon　slowly　raised　his　eyebrows。　One　of　the　muscles　in　his　jaw　was　twitching。

‘Is　that　a　problem？’　he　asked；　in　a　voice　that　throbbed　with　aggression。

‘No；’　lied　Andrew。

You’ve　got　to　be　fucking　joking。　You？　Standing　for　election？　Oh　fuck；　no。

‘It　sounds　like　you’ve　got　a　problem　with　it；’　said　Simon；　still　staring　straight　into　Andrew’s　eyes。

‘No；’　said　Andrew　again；　dropping　his　gaze　to　his　shepherd’s　pie。

‘What’s　wrong　with　me　standing　for　the　council？’　Simon　continued。　He　was　not　about　to　let　it　go。　He　wanted　to　vent　his　tension　in　a　cathartic　outburst　of　rage。

‘Nothing’s　wrong。　I　was　surprised；　that’s　all。’

‘Should　I　have　consulted　you　first？’　said　Simon。

‘No。’

‘Oh；　thank　you；’　said　Simon。　His　lower　jaw　was　protruding；　as　it　often　did　when　he　was　working　up　to　losing　control。　‘Have　you　found　a　job　yet；　you　skiving；　sponging　little　shit？’

‘No。’

Simon　glared　at　Andrew；　not　eating；　but　holding　a　cooling　forkful　of　shepherd’s　pie　in　mid…air。　Andrew　switched　his　attention　back　to　his　food；　determined　not　to　offer　further　provocation。　The　air　pressure　within　the　kitchen　seemed　to　have　increased。　Paul’s　knife　rattled　against　his　plate。

‘Shirley　says；’　Ruth　piped　up　again；　her　voice　high…pitched；　determined　to　pretend　all　was　well　until　this　became　impossible；　‘that　it’ll　be　on　the　council　website；　Simon。　About　how　you　put　your　name　forward。’

Simon　did　not　respond。

Her　last；　best　attempt　thwarted；　Ruth　fell　silent　too。　She　was　afraid　that　she　might　know　what　was　at　the　root　of　Simon’s　bad　mood。　Anxiety　gnawed　at　her；　she　was　a　worrier；　she　always　had　been；　she　couldn’t　help　it。　She　knew　that　it　drove　Simon　mad　when　she　begged　him　for　reassurance。　She　must　not　say　anything。

‘Si？’

‘What？’

‘It’s　all　right；　isn’t　it？　About　the　puter？’

She　was　a　dreadful　actress。　She　tried　to　make　her　voice　casual　and　calm；　but　it　was　brittle　and　high…pitched。

This　was　not　the　first　time　stolen　goods　had　entered　their　home。　Simon　had　found　a　way　of　fiddling　the　electricity　meter　too；　and　did　small　jobs　on　the　side；　at　the　printworks；　for　cash。　All　of　it　gave　her　little　pains　in　the　stomach；　kept　her　awake　at　night；　but　Simon　was　contemptuous　of　people　who　did　not　dare　take　the　shortcuts　（and　part　of　what　she　had　loved　about　him；　from　the　beginning；　was　that　this　rough　and　wild　boy；　who　was　contemptuous；　rude　and　aggressive　to　nearly　everyone；　had　taken　the　trouble　to　attract　her；　that　he；　who　was　so　difficult　to　please；　had　selected　her；　alone；　as　worthy）。

‘What　are　you　talking　about？’　Simon　asked　quietly。　The　full　focus　of　his　attention　shifted　from　Andrew　to　Ruth；　and　was　expressed　by　the　same　unblinking；　venomous　stare。

‘Well；　there　won’t　be　any　…　any　trouble　about　it；　will　there？’

Simon　was　seiz