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‘Yeah；　he　is；’　said　Andrew；　wondering　whether　he　would　be　able　to　dissuade　his　father　from　standing　by　telling　him　he　had　the　wrong　man　and　the　wrong　council。

‘Bit　of　a　coincidence；’　said　Fats；　‘because　Cubby’s　standing　as　well。’

Fats　exhaled　through　his　nostrils；　staring　at　the　crevice　wall　over　Andrew’s　head。

‘So　will　voters　go　for　the　cunt；’　he　said；　‘or　the　twat？’

Andrew　laughed。　There　was　little　he　enjoyed　more　than　hearing　his　father　called　a　cunt　by　Fats。

‘Now　have　a　shifty　at　this；’　said　Fats；　jamming　his　cigarette　between　his　lips　and　patting　his　hips；　even　though　he　knew　that　the　envelope　was　in　the　inside　breast　pocket。　‘Here　you　go；’　he　said；　pulling　it　out　and　opening　it　to　show　Andrew　the　contents：　brown　peppercorn…sized　pods　in　a　powdery　mix　of　shrivelled　stalks　and　leaves。

‘Sensimilla；　that　is。’

‘What　is　it？’

‘Tips　and　shoots　of　your　basic　unfertilized　marijuana　plant；’　said　Fats；　‘specially　prepared　for　your　smoking　pleasure。’

‘What’s　the　difference　between　that　and　the　normal　stuff？’　asked　Andrew；　with　whom　Fats　had　split　several　lumps　of　waxy　black　cannabis　resin　in　the　Cubby　Hole。

‘Just　a　different　smoke；　isn’t　it？’　said　Fats；　stubbing　out　his　own　cigarette。　He　took　a　packet　of　Rizlas　from　his　pocket；　drew　out　three　of　the　fragile　papers　and　gummed　them　together。

‘Did　you　get　it　off　Kirby？’　asked　Andrew；　poking　at　and　sniffing　the　contents　of　the　envelope。

Everyone　knew　Skye　Kirby　was　the　go…to　man　for　drugs。　He　was　a　year　above　them；　in　the　lower　sixth。　His　grandfather　was　an　old　hippy；　who　had　been　up　in　court　several　times　for　growing　his　own。

‘Yeah。　Mind；　there’s　a　bloke　called　Obbo；’　said　Fats；　slitting　cigarettes　and　emptying　the　tobacco　onto　the　papers；　‘in　the　Fields；　who’ll　get　you　anything。　Fucking　smack；　if　you　want　it。’

‘You　don’t　want　smack；　though；’　said　Andrew；　watching　Fats’　face。

‘Nah；’　said　Fats；　taking　the　envelope　back；　and　sprinkling　the　sensimilla　onto　the　tobacco。　He　rolled　the　joint　together；　licking　the　end　of　the　papers　to　seal　it；　poking　the　roach　in　more　neatly；　twisting　the　end　into　a　point。

‘Nice；’　he　said　happily。

He　had　planned　to　tell　Andrew　his　news　after　introducing　the　sensimilla　as　a　kind　of　warm…up　act。　He　held　out　his　hand　for　Andrew’s　lighter；　inserted　the　cardboarded　end　between　his　own　lips　and　lit　up；　taking　a　deep；　contemplative　drag；　blowing　out　the　smoke　in　a　long　blue　jet；　then　repeating　the　process。

‘Mmm；’　he　said；　holding　the　smoke　in　his　lungs；　and　imitating　Cubby；　whom　Tessa　had　given　a　wine　course　one　Christmas。　‘Herby。　A　strong　aftertaste。　Overtones　of　…　fuck　…’

He　experienced　a　massive　headrush；　even　though　he　was　sitting；　and　exhaled；　laughing。

‘…　try　that。’

Andrew　leaned　across　and　took　the　joint；　giggling　in　anticipation；　and　at　the　beatific　smile　on　Fats’　face；　which　was　quite　at　odds　with　his　usual　constipated　scowl。

Andrew　inhaled　and　felt　the　power　of　the　drug　radiate　out　from　his　lungs；　unwinding　and　loosening　him。　Another　drag；　and　he　thought　that　it　was　like　having　your　mind　shaken　out　like　a　duvet；　so　that　it　resettled　without　creases；　so　that　everything　became　smooth　and　simple　and　easy　and　good。

‘Nice；’　he　echoed　Fats；　smiling　at　the　sound　of　his　own　voice。　He　passed　the　joint　back　into　Fat’s　waiting　fingers　and　savoured　this　sense　of　well…being。

‘So；　you　wanna　hear　something　interesting？’　said　Fats；　grinning　uncontrollably。

‘Go　on。’

‘I　fucked　her　last　night。’

Andrew　nearly　said　‘who？’；　before　his　befuddled　brain　remembered：　Krystal　Weedon；　of　course；　Krystal　Weedon；　who　else？

‘Where？’　he　asked；　stupidly。　It　was　not　what　he　wanted　to　know。

Fats　stretched　out　on　his　back　in　his　funeral　suit；　his　feet　towards　the　river。　Wordlessly；　Andrew　stretched　out　beside　him；　in　the　opposite　direction。　They　had　slept　like　this；　‘top　and　tail’；　when　they　had　stayed　overnight　at　each　other’s　houses　as　children。　Andrew　gazed　up　at　the　rocky　ceiling；　where　the　blue　smoke　hung；　slowly　furling；　and　waited　to　hear　everything。

‘I　told　Cubby　and　Tess　I　was　at　yours；　so　you　know；’　said　Fats。　He　passed　the　joint　into　Andrew’s　reaching　fingers；　then　linked　his　long　hands　on　his　chest；　and　listened　to　himself　telling。　‘Then　I　got　the　bus　to　the　Fields。　Met　her　outside　Oddbins。’

‘By　Tesco’s？’　asked　Andrew。　He　did　not　know　why　he　kept　asking　dumb　questions。

‘Yeah；’　said　Fats。　‘We　went　to　the　rec。　There’s　trees　in　the　corner　behind　the　public　bogs。　Nice　and　private。　It　was　getting　dark。’

Fats　shifted　position　and　Andrew　handed　back　the　joint。

‘Getting　in’s　harder　than　I　thought　it　would　be；’　said　Fats；　and　Andrew　was　mesmerized；　half　inclined　to　laugh；　afraid　of　missing　every　unvarnished　detail　Fats　could　give　him。　‘She　was　wetter　when　I　was　fingering　her。’

A　giggle　rose　like　trapped　gas　in　Andrew’s　chest；　but　was　stifled　there。

‘Lot　of　pushing　to　get　in　properly。　It’s　tighter　than　I　thought。’

Andrew　saw　a　jet　of　smoke　rise　from　the　place　where　Fats’　head　must　be。

‘I　came　in　about　ten　seconds。　It　feels　fucking　great　once　you’re　in。’

Andrew　fought　back　laughter；　in　case　there　was　more。

‘I　wore　a　johnny。　It’d　be　better　without。’

He　pushed　the　joint　back　into　Andrew’s　hand。　Andrew　pulled　on　it；　thinking。　Harder　to　get　in　than　you　thought；　over　in　ten　seconds。　It　didn’t　sound　much；　yet　what　wouldn’t　he　give？　He　imagined　Gaia　Bawden　flat　on　her　back　for　him　and；　without　meaning　to；　let　out　a　small　groan；　which　Fats　did　not　seem　to　hear。　Lost　in　a　fug　of　erotic　images；　pulling　on　the　joint；　Andrew　lay　with　his　erection　on　the　patch　of　earth　his　body　was　warming　and　listened　to　the　soft　rush　of　the　water　a　few　feet　from　his　head。

‘What　matters；　Arf？’　asked　Fats；　after　a　long；　dreamy　pause。

His　head　swimming　pleasantly；　Andrew　answered；　‘Sex。’

‘Yeah；’　said　Fats；　delighted。　‘Fucking。　That’s　what　matters。　Propogun　…　propogating　the　species。　Throw　away　the　johnnies。　Multiply。’

‘Yeah；’　said　Andrew；　laughing。

‘And　death；’　said　Fats。　He　had　been　taken　aback　by　the　reality　of　that　coffin；　and　how　little　material　lay　between　all　the　watching　vultures　and　an　actual　corpse。　He　was　not　sorry　that　he　had　left　before　it　disappeared　into　the　ground。　‘Gotta　be；　hasn’t　it？　Death。’

‘Yeah；’　said　Andrew；　thinking　of　war　and　car　crashes；　and　dying　in　blazes　of　speed　and　glory。

‘Yeah；’　said　Fats。　‘Fucking　and　dying。　That’s　it；　innit？　Fucking　and　dying。　That’s　life。’

‘Trying　to　get　a　fuck　and　trying　not　to　die。’

‘Or　trying　to　die；’　said　Fats。　‘Some　people。　Risking　it。’

‘Yeah。　Risking　it。’

There　was　more　silence；　and　their　hiding　place　was　cool　and　hazy。

‘And　music；’　said　Andrew　quietly；　watching　the　blue　smoke　hanging　beneath　the　dark　rock。

‘Yeah；’　said　Fats；　in　the　distance。　‘And　music。’

The　river　rushed　on　past　the　Cubby　Hole。

I
It　rained　on　Barry　Fairbrother’s　grave。　The　ink　blurred　on　the　cards。　Siobhan’s　chunky　sunflower　head　defied　the　pelting　drops；　but　Mary’s　lilies　and　freesias　crumpled；　then　fell　apart。　The　chrysanthemum　oar　darkened　as　it　decayed。　Rain　swelled　the　river；　made　streams　in　the　gutters　and　turned　the　steep　roads　into　Pagford　glossy　and　treacherous。　The　windows　of　the　school　bus　were　opaque　with　condensation；　the　hanging　baskets　in　the　Square　became　bedraggled；　and　Samantha　Mollison；　windscreen　wipers　on　full　tilt；　suffered　a　minor　collision　in　the　car　on　the　way　home　from　work　in　the　city。

A　copy　of　the　Yarvil　and　District　Gazette　stuck　out　of　Mrs　Catherine　Weedon’s　door　in　Hope　Street　for　three　days；　until　it　became　sodden　and　illegible。　Finally；　social　worker　Kay　Bawden　tugged　it　out　of　the　letterbox；　peered　in　through　the　rusty　flap　and　spotted　the　old　lady　spread…eagled　at　the　foot　of　the　stairs。　A　policeman　helped　break　down　the　front　door；　and　Mrs　Weedon　was　taken　away　in　an　ambulance　to　South　West　General。

Still　the　rain　fell；　forcing　the　sign…painter　who　had　been　hired　to　rename　the　old　shoe　shop　to　postpone　the　job。　It　poured　for　days　and　into　the　nights；　and　the　Square　was　full　of　hunchbacks　in　waterproofs；　and　umbrellas　collided　on　the　narrow　pavements。

Howard　Mollison　found　the　gentle　patter　against　the　dark　window　soothing。　He　sat　in　the　study　that　had　once　been　his　daughter　Patricia’s　bedroom；　and　contemplated　the　email　that　he　had　received　from　the　local　newspaper。　They　had　decided　to　run　Councillor　Fairbrother’s　article　arguing　that　the　Fields　ought　to　remain　with　Pagford；　but　in　the　interests　of　balance；　they　hoped　that　another　councillor　might　make　the　case　for　reassignment　in　the　following　issue。

Backfired　on　you；　hasn’t　it；　Fairbrother？　thought　Howard　happily。　There　you　were；　thinking　you’d　have　it　all　your　own　way　…

He　closed　the　email　and　turned　instead　to　the　small　pile　of　papers　beside　him。　These　were　the　letters　that　had　e　trickling　in；　requesting　an　election　to　fill　Barry’s　vacant　seat。　The　constitution　stated　that　it　required　nine　applications　to　enforce　a　public　vote；　and　he　had　received　ten。　He　read　them　over；　while　his　wife’s　and　his　business　partner’s　voices　rose　and　fell　in　the　kitchen；　stripping　bare　between　them　the　meaty　scandal　of　old　Mrs　Weedon’s　collapse　and　belated　discovery。

‘…　don’t　walk　out　on　your　doctor　for　nothing；　do　you？　Screaming　at　the　top　of　her　voice；　Karen　said—’

‘—saying　she’d　been　given　the　wrong　drugs；　yes；　I　know；’　said　Shirley；　who　considered　that　she　had　a　monopoly　on　medical　speculation；　given　that　she　was　a　hospital　volunteer。　‘They’ll　run　tests　up　at　the　General；　I　expect。’

‘I’d　be　feeling　very　worried　if　I　were　Dr　Jawanda。’

‘She’s　probably　hoping　the　Weedons　are　too　ignorant　to　sue；　but　that　won’t　matter　if　the　General　finds　out　it　was　the　wrong　medication。’

‘She’ll　be　struck　off；’　said　Maureen　with　relish。

‘That’s　right；’　said　Shirley；　‘and　I’m　afraid　a　lot　of　people　will　feel　good　riddance。　Good　riddance。’

Methodically　Howard　sorted　letters　into　piles。　Miles’　pleted　application　forms　he　set　aside　on　their　own。　The　remaining　munications　were　from　fellow　Parish　Councillors。　There　were　no　surprises　here；　as　soon　as　Parminder　had　emailed　him　to　tell　him　that　she　knew　of　somebody　who　was　interested　in　standing　for　Barry’s　seat；　he　had　expected　these　six　to　rally　round　her；　demanding　an　election。　Together　with　Bends…Your…Ear　herself；　they　were　the　ones　he　dubbed　‘the　Obstreperous　Faction’；　whose　leader　had　recently　fallen。　Onto　this　pile　he　placed　the　pleted　forms　of　Colin　Wall；　their　chosen　candidate。

Into　a　third　pile　he　placed　four　more　letters；　which　were；　likewise；　from　expected　sources：　professional　plainers　of　Pagford；　known　to　Howard　as　perennially　dissatisfied　and　suspicious；　all　prolific　correspondents　to　the　Yarvil　and　District　Gazette。　Each　had　their　own　obsessive　interest　in　some　esoteric　local　issue；　and　considered　themselves　‘independent　minded’；　they　would　be　the　ones　most　likely　to　scream　‘nepotism’　if　Miles　had　been　co…opted；　but　they　were　among　the　most　anti…Fields　people　in　town。

Howard　took　the　last　two　letters　in　each　hand；　weighing　them　up。　One　of　them　was　from　a　woman　whom　he　had　never　met；　who　claimed　（Howard　took　nothing　for　granted）　to　work　at　the　Bellchapel　Addiction　Clinic　（the　fact　that　she　styled　herself　‘Ms’　inclined　him　to　believe　her）。　After　some　hesitation；　he　placed　this　on　top　of　Cubby　Wall’s　application　forms。

The　last　letter；　unsigned　and　typed　on　a　word　processor；　demanded　an　election　in　intemperate　terms。　It　had　an　air　of　haste　and　carelessness　and　was　littered　with　typos。　The　letter　extolled　the　virtues　of　Barry　Fairbrother　and　named　Miles　specifically　as　‘unfit　to　fill　his　sheos’。　Howard　wondered　whether　Miles　had　a　disgruntled　client　out　there　who　might　prove　to　be　an　embarrassment。　It　was　good　to　be　forewarned　of　such　potential　hazards。　However；　Howard　doubted　whether　the　letter；　being　anonymous；　counted　as　a　vote　for　an　election。　He　therefore　fed　it　into　the　little　desktop　shredder　that　Shirley　had　given　him　for　Christmas。

II
Edward　Collins　&　Co。；　the　Pagford　solicitors；　occupied　the　upper　floor　of　a　terraced　brick　house；　with　an　optician’s　on　the　ground　floor。　Edward　Collins　was　decease