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　to　turn　on　the　water　before　telephoning　Shirley；　worried　that　he　might　think　that　even　her　request　about　the　EpiPen　was　fraternizing　with　the　enemy。

The　family　PC　was　set　up　in　a　corner　of　the　sitting　room；　where　Simon　could　keep　an　eye　on　it；　and　make　sure　nobody　was　running　up　large　bills　behind　his　back。　Ruth　relinquished　her　grip　on　the　phone　and　hurried　to　the　keyboard。

It　seemed　to　take　a　very　long　time　to　bring　up　the　Pagford　Council　website。　Ruth　pushed　her　reading　glasses　up　her　nose　with　a　trembling　hand　as　she　scanned　the　various　pages。　At　last　she　found　the　message　board。　Her　husband’s　name　blazed　out　at　her；　in　ghastly　black　and　white：　Simon　Price　Unfit　to　Stand　for　Council。

She　double…clicked　the　title；　brought　up　the　full　paragraph　and　read　it。　Everything　around　her　seemed　to　reel　and　spin。

‘Oh　God；’　she　whispered。

The　boiler　had　stopped　clanking。　Simon　would　be　putting　on　the　pyjamas　he　had　warmed　on　the　radiator。　He　had　already　drawn　the　sitting…room　curtains；　turned　on　the　side　lamps　and　lit　the　wood…burner；　so　that　he　could　e　down　and　stretch　out　on　the　sofa　to　watch　the　news。

Ruth　knew　that　she　would　have　to　tell　him。　Not　doing　so；　letting　him　find　out　for　himself；　was　simply　not　an　option；　she　would　have　been　incapable　of　keeping　it　to　herself。　She　felt　terrified　and　guilty；　though　she　did　not　know　why。

She　heard　him　jogging　down　the　stairs　and　then　he　appeared　at　the　door　in　his　blue　brushed…cotton　pyjamas。

‘Si；’　she　whispered。

‘What’s　the　matter？’　he　said；　immediately　irritated。　He　knew　that　something　had　happened；　that　his　luxurious　programme　of　sofa；　fire　and　news　was　about　to　be　disarranged。

She　pointed　at　the　puter　monitor；　one　hand　pressed　foolishly　over　her　mouth；　like　a　little　girl。　Her　terror　infected　him。　He　strode　to　the　PC　and　scowled　down　at　the　screen。　He　was　not　a　quick　reader。　He　read　every　word；　every　line；　painstakingly；　carefully。

When　he　had　finished；　he　remained　quite　still；　passing　for　review；　in　his　mind；　all　the　likely　grasses。　He　thought　of　the　gum…chewing　forklift　driver；　whom　he　had　left　stranded　in　the　Fields　when　they　had　picked　up　the　new　puter。　He　thought　of　Jim　and　Tommy；　who　did　the　cash…in…hand　jobs　on　the　sly　with　him。　Someone　from　work　must　have　talked。　Rage　and　fear　collided　inside　him　and　set　off　a　bustive　reaction。

He　strode　to　the　foot　of　the　stairs　and　shouted；　‘You　two！　Get　down　here　NOW！’

Ruth　still　had　her　hand　over　her　mouth。　He　had　a　sadistic　urge　to　slap　her　hand　away；　to　tell　her　to　fucking　pull　herself　together；　it　was　he　who　was　in　the　shit。

Andrew　entered　the　room　first　with　Paul　behind　him。　Andrew　saw　the　arms　of　Pagford　Parish　Council　onscreen；　and　his　mother　with　her　hand　over　her　mouth。　Walking　barefoot　across　the　old　carpet；　he　had　the　sensation　that　he　was　plummeting　through　the　air　in　a　broken　lift。

‘Someone；’　said　Simon；　glaring　at　his　sons；　‘has　talked　about　things　I’ve　mentioned　inside　this　house。’

Paul　had　brought　his　chemistry　exercise　book　downstairs　with　him；　he　was　holding　it　like　a　hymnal。　Andrew　kept　his　gaze　fixed　on　his　father；　trying　to　project　an　expression　of　mingled　confusion　and　curiosity。

‘Who’s　told　other　people　we’ve　got　a　stolen　puter？’　asked　Simon。

‘I　haven’t；’　said　Andrew。

Paul　stared　at　his　father　blankly；　trying　to　process　the　question。　Andrew　willed　his　brother　to　speak。　Why　did　he　have　to　be　so　slow？

‘Well？’　Simon　snarled　at　Paul。

‘I　don’t　think　I—’

‘You　don’t　think？　You　don’t　think　you　told　anyone？’

‘No；　I　don’t　think　I　told　any—’

‘Oh；　this　is　interesting；’　said　Simon；　pacing　up　and　down　in　front　of　Paul。　‘This　is　interesting。’

With　a　slap　he　sent　Paul’s　exercise　book　flying　out　of　his　hands。

‘Try　and　think；　dipshit；’　he　growled。　‘Try　and　fucking　think。　Did　you　tell　anyone　we’ve　got　a　stolen　puter？’

‘Not　stolen；’　said　Paul。　‘I　never　told　anyone　–　I　don’t　think　I　told　anyone　we　had　a　new　one；　even。’

‘I　see；’　said　Simon。　‘So　the　news　got　out　by　magic　then；　did　it？’

He　was　pointing　at　the　puter　monitor。

‘Someone’s　fucking　talked！’　he　yelled；　‘because　it’s　on　the　fucking　inter！　And　I’ll　be　fucking　lucky　not　–　to　–　lose　–　my　–　job！’

On　each　of　the　five　last　words　he　thumped　Paul　on　the　head　with　his　fist。　Paul　cowered　and　ducked；　black　liquid　trickled　from　his　left　nostril；　he　suffered　nosebleeds　several　times　a　week。

‘And　what　about　you？’　Simon　roared　at　his　wife；　who　was　still　frozen　beside　the　puter；　her　eyes　wide　behind　her　glasses；　her　hand　clamped　like　a　yashmak　over　her　mouth。　‘Have　you　been　fucking　gossiping？’

Ruth　ungagged　herself。

‘No；　Si；’　she　whispered；　‘I　mean；　the　only　person　I　told　we　had　a　new　puter　was　Shirley　–　and　she’d　never—’

You　stupid　woman；　you　stupid　fucking　woman；　what　did　you　have　to　tell　him　that　for？

‘You　did　what？’　asked　Simon　quietly。

‘I　told　Shirley；’　whimpered　Ruth。　‘I　didn’t　say　it　was　stolen；　though；　Si。　I　only　said　you　were　bringing　it　home—’

‘Well；　that’s　fucking　it　then；　isn’t　it？’　roared　Simon；　his　voice　became　a　scream。　‘Her　fucking　son’s　standing　for　election；　of　course　she　wants　to　get　the　fucking　goods　on　me！’

‘But　she’s　the　one　who　told　me；　Si；　just　now；　she　wouldn’t　have—’

He　ran　at　her　and　hit　her　in　the　face；　exactly　as　he　had　wanted　to　when　he　had　first　seen　her　silly　frightened　expression；　her　glasses　spun　into　the　air　and　smashed　against　the　bookcase；　he　hit　her　again　and　she　crashed　down　onto　the　puter　table　she　had　bought　so　proudly　with　her　first　month’s　wages　from　South　West　General。

Andrew　had　made　himself　a　promise：　he　seemed　to　move　in　slow　motion；　and　everything　was　cold　and　clammy　and　slightly　unreal。

‘Don’t　hit　her；’　he　said；　forcing　himself　between　his　parents。　‘Don’t—’

His　lip　split　against　his　front　tooth；　Simon’s　knuckle　behind　it；　and　he　fell　backwards　on　top　of　his　mother；　who　was　draped　over　the　keyboard；　Simon　threw　another　punch；　which　hit　Andew’s　arms　as　he　protected　his　face；　Andrew　was　trying　to　get　off　his　slumped；　struggling　mother；　and　Simon　was　in　a　frenzy；　pummelling　both　of　them　wherever　he　could　reach—

‘Don’t　you　fucking　dare　tell　me　what　to　do　–　don’t　you　dare；　you　cowardly　little　shit；　you　spotty　streak　of　piss—’

Andrew　dropped　to　his　knees　to　get　out　of　the　way；　and　Simon　kicked　him　in　the　ribs。　Andrew　heard　Paul　say　pathetically；　‘Stop　it！’　Simon’s　foot　swung　for　Andrew’s　ribcage　again；　but　Andrew　dodged　it；　Simon’s　toes　collided　with　the　brick　fireplace　and　he　was　suddenly；　absurdly；　howling　in　pain。

Andrew　scrambled　out　of　the　way；　Simon　was　gripping　the　end　of　his　foot；　hopping　on　the　spot　and　swearing　in　a　high…pitched　voice；　Ruth　had　collapsed　into　the　swivel　chair；　sobbing　into　her　hands。　Andrew　got　to　his　feet；　he　could　taste　his　own　blood。

‘Anyone　could　have　talked　about　that　puter；’　he　panted；　braced　for　further　violence；　he　felt　braver　now　that　it　had　begun；　now　that　the　fight　was　really　on；　it　was　waiting　that　told　on　your　nerves；　watching　Simon’s　jaw　begin　to　jut；　and　hearing　the　urge　for　violence　building　in　his　voice。　‘You　told　us　a　security　guard　got　beaten　up。　Anyone　could　have　talked。　It’s　not　us—’

‘Don’t　you　–　fucking　little　shit　–　I’ve　broken　my　fucking　toe！’　Simon　gasped；　falling　backwards　into　an　armchair；　still　nursing　his　foot。　He　seemed　to　expect　sympathy。

Andrew　imagined　picking　up　a　gun　and　shooting　Simon　in　the　face；　watching　his　features　blast　apart；　his　brains　spattering　the　room。

‘And　Pauline’s　got　her　fucking　period　again！’　Simon　yelled　at　Paul；　who　was　trying　to　contain　the　blood　dripping　through　his　fingers　from　his　nose。　‘Get　off　the　carpet！　Get　off　the　fucking　carpet；　you　little　pansy！’

Paul　scuttled　out　of　the　room。　Andrew　pressed　the　hem　of　his　T…shirt　to　his　stinging　mouth。

‘What　about　all　the　cash…in…hand　jobs？’　Ruth　sobbed；　her　cheek　pink　from　his　punch；　tears　dripping　from　her　chin。　Andrew　hated　to　see　her　humiliated　and　pathetic　like　this；　but　he　half　hated　her　too　for　landing　herself　in　it；　when　any　idiot　could　have　seen　…　‘It　says　about　the　cash…in…hand　jobs。　Shirley　doesn’t　know　about　them；　how　could　she？　Someone　at　the　printworks　has　put　that　on　there。　I　told　you；　Si；　I　told　you　you　shouldn’t　do　those　jobs；　they’ve　always　worried　the　living　daylights　out　of—’

‘Fucking　shut　up；　you　whining　cow；　you　didn’t　mind　spending　the　money！’　yelled　Simon；　his　jaw　jutting　again；　and　Andrew　wanted　to　roar　at　his　mother　to　stay　silent：　she　blabbed　when　any　idiot　could　have　told　her　she　should　keep　quiet；　and　she　kept　quiet　when　she　might　have　done　good　by　speaking　out；　she　never　learned；　she　never　saw　any　of　it　ing。

Nobody　spoke　for　a　minute。　Ruth　dabbed　at　her　eyes　with　the　back　of　her　hand　and　sniffed　intermittently。　Simon　clutched　his　toe；　his　jaw　clenched；　breathing　loudly。　Andrew　licked　the　blood　from　his　stinging　lip；　which　he　could　feel　swelling。

‘This’ll　cost　me　my　fucking　job；’　said　Simon；　staring　wild…eyed　around　the　room；　as　if　there　might　be　somebody　there　he　had　forgotten　to　hit。　‘They’re　already　talking　about　fucking　redundancies。　This’ll　be　it。　This’ll—’　He　slapped　the　lamp　off　the　end　table；　but　it　didn’t　break；　merely　rolled　on　the　floor。　He　picked　it　up；　tugged　the　lead　out　of　the　wall　socket；　raised　it　over　his　head　and　threw　it　at　Andrew；　who　dodged。

‘Who’s　fucking　talked？’　Simon　yelled；　as　the　lamp　base　broke　apart　on　the　wall。　‘Someone’s　fucking　talked！’

‘It’s　some　bastard　at　the　printworks；　isn’t　it？’　Andrew　shouted　back；　his　lip　was　thick　and　throbbing；　it　felt　like　a　tangerine　segment。　‘D’you　think　we’d　have　–　d’you　think　we　don’t　know　how　to　keep　our　mouths　shut　by　now？’

It　was　like　trying　to　read　a　wild　animal。　He　could　see　the　muscles　working　in　his　father’s　jaw；　but　he　could　tell　that　Simon　was　considering　Andrew’s　words。

‘When　was　that　put　on　there？’　he　roared　at　Ruth。　‘Look　at　it！　What’s　the　date　on　it？’

Still　sobbing；　she　peered　at　the　screen；　needing　to　approach　the　tip　of　her　nose　within　two　inches　of　it；　now　that　her　glasses　were　broken。

‘The　fifteenth；’　she　whispered。

‘Fifteenth　…　Sunday；’　said　Simon。　‘Sunday；　wasn’t　it？’

Neither　Andrew　nor　Ruth　put　him　right。　Andrew　could　not　believe　his　luck；　nor　did　he　believe　it　would　hold。

‘Sunday；’　said　Simon；　‘so　anyone　could’ve　–　my　fucking　toe；’　he　yelled；　as　he　pulled　himself　up　and　limped　exaggeratedly　towards　Ruth。　‘Get　out　of　my　way！’

She　hastened　out　of　the　chair　and　watched　him　read　the　paragraph　through　again。　He　kept　snorting　like　an　animal　to　clear　his　airways。　Andrew　thought　that　he　might　be　able　to　garrotte　his　father　as　he　sat　there；　if　only　there　was　a　wire　to　hand。

‘Someone’s　got　all　this　from　work；’　said　Simon；　as　if　he　had　just　reached　this　conclusion；　and　had　not　heard　his　wife　or　son　urging　the　hypothesis　on　him。　He　placed　his　hands　on　the　keyboard　and　turned　to　Andrew。　‘How　do　I　get　rid　of　it？’

‘What？’

‘You　do　fucking　puting！　How　do　I　get　this　off　here？’

‘You　can’t　get　–　you　can’t；’　said　Andrew。　‘You’d　need　to　be　the　administrator。’

‘Make　yourself　the　administrator；　then；’　said　Simon；　jumping　up　and　pointing　Andrew　into　the　swivel　chair。

‘I　can’t　make　myself　the　administrator；’　said　Andrew。　He　was　afraid　that　Simon　was　working　himself　up　into　a　second　bout　of　violence。　‘You　need　to　input　the　right　user　name　and　passwords。’

‘You’re　a　real　fucking　waste　of　space；　aren’t　you？’

Simon　shoved　Andrew　in　the　middle　of　his　sternum　as　he　limped　past；　knocking　him　back　into　the　mantelpiece。

‘Pass　me　the　phone！’　Simon　shouted　at　his　wife；　as　he　sat　back　down　in　the　armchair。

Ruth　took　the　telephone　and　carried　it　the　few　feet　to　Simon。　He　ripped　it　out　of　her　hands　and　punched　in　a　number。

Andrew　and　Ruth　waited　in　silence　as　Simon　called；　first　Jim；　and　then　Tommy；　the　men　with　whom　he　had　pleted　the　after…hours　jobs　at　the　printworks。　Simon’s　fury；　his　suspicion　of　his　own　acplices；　was　funnelled　down　the　telephone　in　curt　short　sentences　full　of　swearwords。

Paul　had　not　returned。　Perhaps　he　was　still　trying　to　staunch　his　bleeding　nose；　but　more　likely　he　was　too　scared。　Andrew　thought　his　brothe