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back　into　Kay’s　house。

He　was　having　difficulty　getting　enough　air　into　his　lungs。　There　was　a　tight　knot　in　his　chest。　Only　now　did　he　realize　that　Barry　Fairbrother　had　been　his　best　friend。

VII
Though　Pagford’s　delicatessen　would　not　open　until　nine　thirty；　Howard　Mollison　had　arrived　early。　He　was　an　extravagantly　obese　man　of　sixty…four。　A　great　apron　of　stomach　fell　so　far　down　in　front　of　his　thighs　that　most　people　thought　instantly　of　his　penis　when　they　first　clapped　eyes　on　him；　wondering　when　he　had　last　seen　it；　how　he　washed　it；　how　he　managed　to　perform　any　of　the　acts　for　which　a　penis　is　designed。　Partly　because　his　physique　set　off　these　trains　of　thought；　and　partly　because　of　his　fine　line　in　banter；　Howard　managed　to　disfort　and　disarm　in　almost　equal　measure；　so　that　customers　almost　always　bought　more　than　they　meant　to　on　a　first　visit　to　the　shop。　He　kept　up　the　patter　while　he　worked；　one　short…fingered　hand　sliding　the　meat…slicer　smoothly　backwards　and　forwards；　silky…fine　slices　of　ham　rippling　onto　the　cellophane　held　below；　a　wink　ever　ready　in　his　round　blue　eyes；　his　chins　wobbling　with　easy　laughter。

Howard　had　devised　a　costume　to　wear　to　work：　white　shirt…sleeves；　a　stiff　dark…green　canvas　apron；　corduroy　trousers　and　a　deerstalker　into　which　he　had　inserted　a　number　of　fisherman’s　flies。　If　the　deerstalker　had　ever　been　a　joke；　it　had　long　since　ceased　to　be。　Every　workday　morning　he　positioned　it；　with　unsmiling　exactitude；　on　his　dense　grey　curls；　aided　by　a　small　mirror　in　the　staff　lavatory。

It　was　Howard’s　constant　pleasure　to　open　up　in　the　mornings。　He　loved　moving　around　the　shop　while　the　only　sound　was　that　of　the　softly　humming　chill　cabis；　relished　bringing　it　all　back　to　life　–　flicking　on　the　lights；　pulling　up　the　blinds；　lifting　lids　to　uncover　the　treasures　of　the　chilled　counter：　the　pale　grey…green　artichokes；　the　onyx…black　olives；　the　dried　tomatoes　curled　like　ruby　seahorses　in　their　herb…flecked　oil。

This　morning；　however；　his　enjoyment　was　laced　with　impatience。　His　business　partner　Maureen　was　already　late；　and；　like　Miles　earlier；　Howard　was　afraid　that　somebody　might　beat　him　to　the　telling　of　the　sensational　news；　because　she　did　not　have　a　mobile　phone。

He　paused　beside　the　newly　hewn　archway　in　the　wall　between　the　delicatessen　and　the　old　shoe　shop；　soon　to　bee　Pagford’s　newest　café；　and　checked　the　industrial…strength　clear　plastic　that　prevented　dust　from　settling　in　the　delicatessen。　They　were　planning　to　have　the　café　open　before　Easter；　in　time　to　pull　in　the　tourists　to　the　West　Country　for　whom　Howard　filled　the　windows　annually　with　local　cider；　cheese　and　corn　dollies。

The　bell　tinkled　behind　him；　and　he　turned；　his　patched　and　reinforced　heart　pumping　fast　from　excitement。

Maureen　was　a　slight；　round…shouldered　woman　of　sixty…two；　and　the　widow　of　Howard’s　original　partner。‘Heard　the　news？’

She　frowned　at　him　interrogatively。

‘Barry　Fairbrother’s　dead。’

Her　mouth　fell　open。

‘No！　How？’

Howard　tapped　the　side　of　his　head。

‘Something　went。　Up　here。　Miles　was　there；　saw　it　all　happen。　Golf　club　car　park。’

‘No！’　she　said　again。

‘Stone　dead；’　said　Howard；　as　though　there　were　degrees　of　deadness；　and　the　kind　that　Barry　Fairbrother　had　contracted　was　particularly　sordid。

Maureen’s　brightly　lipsticked　mouth　hung　slackly　as　she　crossed　herself。　Her　Catholicism　always　added　a　picturesque　touch　to　such　moments。

‘Miles　was　there？’　she　croaked。　He　heard　the　yearning　for　every　detail　in　her　deep；　ex…smoker’s　voice。

‘D’you　want　to　put　on　the　kettle；　Mo？’

He　could　at　least　prolong　her　agony　for　a　few　minutes。　She　slopped　boiling　tea　over　her　hand　in　her　haste　to　return　to　him。　They　sat　together　behind　the　counter；　on　the　high　wooden　stools　Howard　had　placed　there　for　slack　periods；　and　Maureen　cooled　her　burnt　hand　on　a　fistful　of　ice　scraped　from　around　the　olives。　Together　they　rattled　through　the　conventional　aspects　of　the　tragedy：　the　widow　（‘she’ll　be　lost；　she　lived　for　Barry’）；　the　children　（‘four　teenagers；　what　a　burden　without　a　father’）；　the　relative　youth　of　the　dead　man　（‘he　wasn’t　much　older　than　Miles；　was　he？’）；　and　then；　at　last；　they　reached　the　real　point　of　departure；　beside　which　all　else　was　aimless　meandering。

‘What’ll　happen？’　Maureen　asked　Howard　greedily。

‘Ah；’　said　Howard。　‘Well；　now。　That’s　the　question；　isn’t　it？　We’ve　got　ourselves　a　casual　vacancy；　Mo；　and　it　could　make　all　the　difference。’

‘We’ve　got　a　…？’　asked　Maureen；　frightened　that　she　might　have　missed　something　crucial。

‘Casual　vacancy；’　repeated　Howard。　‘What　you　call　it　when　a　council　seat　bees　vacant　through　a　death。　Proper　term；’　he　said　pedagogically。

Howard　was　the　Chair　of　the　Parish　Council；　and　First　Citizen　of　Pagford。　The　position　came　with　a　gilt　and　enamel　chain　of　office；　now　reposing　in　the　tiny　safe　that　he　and　Shirley　had　had　installed　at　the　bottom　of　their　fitted　wardrobes。　If　only　Pagford　District　had　been　granted　borough　status；　he　would　have　been　able　to　call　himself　Mayor；　but　even　so；　to　all　intents　and　purposes；　that　was　what　he　was。　Shirley　had　made　this　perfectly　clear　on　the　homepage　of　the　council　website；　where；　beneath　a　beaming　and　florid　photograph　of　Howard　in　his　First　Citizen’s　chain；　it　was　stated　that　he　weled　invitations　to　attend　local　civic　and　business　functions。　Just　a　few　weeks　previously；　he　had　handed　out　the　cycling　proficiency　certificates　at　the　local　primary　school。

Howard　sipped　his　tea　and　said　with　a　smile　to　take　off　the　sting；　‘Fairbrother　was　a　bugger；　mind；　Mo。　He　could　be　a　real　bugger。’

‘Oh；　I　know；’　she　said。　‘I　know。’

‘I’d　have　had　to　have　it　out　with　him；　if　he’d　lived。　Ask　Shirley。　He　could　be　an　underhand　bugger。’

‘Oh；　I　know。’

‘Well；　we’ll　see。　We’ll　see。　This　should　be　the　end　of　it。　Mind；　I　certainly　didn’t　want　to　win　like　this；’　he　added；　with　a　deep　sigh；　‘but　speaking　for　the　sake　of　Pagford　…　for　the　munity　…　it’s　not　all　bad　…’

Howard　checked　his　watch。

‘That’s　nearly　half…past；　Mo。’

They　were　never　late　opening　up；　never　early　closing；　the　business　was　run　with　the　ritual　and　regularity　of　a　temple。

Maureen　teetered　over　to　unlock　the　door　and　pull　up　the　blinds。　The　Square　was　revealed　in　jerky　increments　as　the　blinds　went　up：　picturesque　and　well　kept；　due　in　large　part　to　the　co…ordinated　efforts　of　those　proprietors　whose　properties　faced　onto　it。　Window…boxes；　hanging　baskets　and　flower　tubs　were　dotted　about；　planted　in　mutually　agreed　colours　each　year。　The　Black　Canon　（one　of　the　oldest　pubs　in　England）　faced　Mollison　and　Lowe　across　the　Square。

Howard　strode　in　and　out　of　the　back　room；　fetching　long　rectangular　dishes　containing　fresh　patés；　and　laying　them；　with　their　jewel…bright　adornments　of　glistening　citrus　segments　and　berries；　neatly　beneath　the　glass　counter。　Puffing　a　little　from　exertion　ing　on　top　of　so　much　early　morning　conversation；　Howard　set　the　last　of　the　patés　down　and　stood　for　a　little　while；　looking　out　at　the　war　memorial　in　the　middle　of　the　Square。

Pagford　was　as　lovely　as　ever　this　morning；　and　Howard　knew　a　sublime　moment　of　exultation　in　the　existence；　both　of　himself；　and　of　the　town　to　which　he　belonged；　as　he　saw　it；　like　a　pulsing　heart。　He　was　here　to　drink　it　all　in　–　the　glossy　black　benches；　the　red　and　purple　flowers；　the　sunlight　gilding　the　top　of　the　stone　cross　–　and　Barry　Fairbrother　was　gone。　It　was　difficult　not　to　sense　a　greater　design　in　this　sudden　rearrangement　of　what　Howard　saw　as　the　battlefield　across　which　he　and　Barry　had　faced　each　other　for　so　long。

‘Howard；’　said　Maureen　sharply。　‘Howard。’

A　woman　was　striding　across　the　Square；　a　thin；　black…haired；　brown…skinned　woman　in　a　trench　coat；　who　was　scowling　at　her　booted　feet　as　she　walked。

‘D’you　think　she　…？　Has　she　heard？’　whispered　Maureen。

‘I　don’t　know；’　said　Howard。。　

Maureen；　who　had　still　not　found　time　to　change　into　her　Dr　Scholl’s；　nearly　turned　an　ankle　as　she　backed　away　from　the　windows　in　haste；　and　hurried　behind　the　counter。　Howard　walked　slowly；　majestically；　to　occupy　the　space　behind　the　till；　like　a　gunner　moving　to　his　post。

The　bell　tinkled；　and　Dr　Parminder　Jawanda　pushed　open　the　door　of　the　delicatessen；　still　frowning。　She　did　not　acknowledge　Howard　or　Maureen；　but　made　her　way　directly　to　the　shelf　of　oils。　Maureen’s　eyes　followed　her　with　the　rapt　and　unblinking　attention　of　a　hawk　watching　a　field　mouse。

‘Morning；’　said　Howard；　when　Parminder　approached　the　counter　with　a　bottle　in　her　hand。

‘Morning。’

Dr　Jawanda　rarely　looked　him　in　the　eye；　either　at　Parish　Council　meetings；　or　when　they　met　outside　the　church　hall。　Howard　was　always　amused　by　her　inability　to　dissemble　her　dislike；　it　made　him　jovial；　extravagantly　gallant　and　courteous。

‘Not　at　work　today？’

‘No；’　said　Parminder；　rummaging　in　her　purse。

Maureen　could　not　contain　herself。

‘Dreadful　news；’　she　said；　in　her　hoarse；　cracked　voice。　‘About　Barry　Fairbrother。’

‘Mm；’　said　Parminder；　but　then；　‘What？’

‘About　Barry　Fairbrother；’　repeated　Maureen。

‘What　about　him？’

Parminder’s　Birmingham　accent　was　still　strong　after　sixteen　years　in　Pagford。　A　deep　vertical　groove　between　her　eyebrows　gave　her　a　perennially　intense　look；　sometimes　of　crossness；　sometimes　of　concentration。

‘He　died；’　said　Maureen；　gazing　hungrily　into　the　scowling　face。　‘Last　night。　Howard’s　just　been　telling　me。’

Parminder　remained　quite　still；　with　her　hand　in　her　purse。　Then　her　eyes　slid　sideways　to　Howard。

‘Collapsed　and　died　in　the　golf　club　car　park；’　Howard　said。　‘Miles　was　there；　saw　it　happen。’

More　seconds　passed。

‘Is　this　a　joke？’　demanded　Parminder；　her　voice　hard　and　high…pitched。

‘Of　course　it’s　not　a　joke；’　said　Maureen；　savouring　her　own　outrage。　‘Who’d　make　a　joke　like　that？’

Parminder　set　down　the　oil　with　a　bang　on　the　glass…topped　counter　and　walked　out　of　the　shop。

‘Well！’　said　Maureen；　in　an　ecstasy　of　disapproval。　‘“Is　this　a　joke？”　Charming！’

‘Shock；’　said　Howard　wisely；　watching　Parminder　hurrying　back　across　the　Square；　her　trench　coat　flapping　behind　her。　‘She’ll　be　as　upset　as　the　widow；　that　one。　Mind　you；　it’ll　be　interesting；’　he　added；　scratching　idly　at　the　overfold　of　his　belly；　which　was　often　itchy；　‘to　see　what　she　…’

He　left　the　sentence　unfinished；　but　it　did　not　matter：　Maureen　knew　exactly　what　he　meant。　Both；　as　they　watched　Councillor　Jawanda　disappear　around　a　corner；　were　contemplating　the　casual　vacancy：　and　they　saw　it；　not　as　an　empty　space　but　as　a　magician’s　pocket；　full　of　possibilities。

VIII
The　Old　Vicarage　was　the　last　and　grandest　of　the　Victorian　houses　in　Church　Row。　It　stood　at　the　very　bottom；　in　a　big　corner　garden；　facing　St　Michael　and　All　Saints　across　the　road。

Parminder；　who　had　run　the　last　few　yards　down　the　street；　fumbled　with　the　stiff　lock　on　the　front　door　and　let　herself　inside。　She　would　not　believe　it　until　she　heard　it　from　somebody　else；　anybody　else；　but　the　telephone　was　already　ringing　ominously　in　the　kitchen。

‘Yes？’

‘It’s　Vikram。’

Parminder’s　husband　was　a　cardiac　surgeon。　He　worked　at　the　South　West　General　Hospital　in　Yarvil　and　he　never　usually　called　from　work。　Parminder　gripped　the　receiver　so　tightly　that　her　fingers　hurt。

‘I　only　heard　by　accident。　It　sounds　like　an　aneurysm。　I’ve　asked　Huw　Jeffries　to　move　the　PM　up　the　list。　Better　for　Mary　to　know　what　it　was。　They　could　be　doing　him　now。’

‘Right；’　whispered　Parminder。

‘Tessa　Wall　was　there；’　he　told　her。　‘Call　Tessa。’

‘Yes；’　said　Parminder。　‘All　right。’

But　when　she　had　hung　up；　she　sank　down　into　one　of　the　kitchen　chairs　and　stared　out　of　the　window　into　the　back　garden　without　seeing　it；　her　fingers　pressed　to　her　mouth。

Everything　had　shattered。　The　fact　that　it　was　all　still　there　–　the　walls　and　the　chairs　and　the　children’s　pictures　on　the　walls　–　meant　nothing。　Every　atom　of　it　had　been　blasted　apart　and　reconstituted　in　an　instant；　and　its　appearance　of　permanence　and　solidity　was　laughable；　it　would　dissolve　at