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ation。　It　had　been　the　happiest　guidance　session　she　had　ever　known。

‘Were　they　going　to　interview　you　because　of　rowing？’　asked　Tessa。　‘The　crew　again？’

‘No；’　said　Krystal。　‘Other　stuff。’　Then；　‘When’s　his　funeral？’

‘We　don’t　know　yet；’　said　Tessa。

Krystal　gnawed　at　her　nails；　and　Tessa　could　not　summon　the　energy　to　break　the　silence　that　solidified　around　them。

X
The　announcement　of　Barry’s　death　on　the　Parish　Council　website　sank　with　barely　a　ripple；　a　tiny　pebble　into　the　teeming　ocean。　All　the　same；　the　telephone　lines　in　Pagford　were　busier　than　usual　this　Monday；　and　little　knots　of　pedestrians　kept　congregating　on　the　narrow　pavements　to　check；　in　shocked　tones；　the　exactness　of　their　information。

As　the　news　travelled；　an　odd　transmutation　took　place。　It　happened　to　the　signature　dotting　the　files　in　Barry’s　office　and　to　the　emails　littering　inboxes　of　his　enormous　acquaintance；　which　began　to　take　on　the　pathos　of　the　crumb　trail　of　a　lost　boy　in　a　forest。　These　rapid　scribbles；　the　pixels　arranged　by　fingers　henceforth　forever　still；　acquired　the　macabre　aspect　of　husks。　Gavin　was　already　a　little　repelled　by　the　sight　of　his　dead　friend’s　texts　on　his　phone；　and　one　of　the　girls　from　the　rowing　eight；　still　crying　as　she　walked　back　from　assembly；　found　a　form　that　Barry　had　signed　in　her　school　bag；　and　became　almost　hysterical。

The　twenty…three…year…old　journalist　at　the　Yarvil　and　District　Gazette　had　no　idea　that　Barry’s　once　busy　brain　was　now　a　heavy　handful　of　spongy　tissue　on　a　metal　tray　in　South　West　General。　She　read　through　what　he　had　emailed　her　an　hour　before　his　death；　then　called　his　mobile　number；　but　nobody　answered。　Barry’s　phone；　which　he　had　turned　off　at　Mary’s　request　before　they　left　for　the　golf　club；　was　sitting　silently　beside　the　microwave　in　the　kitchen；　along　with　the　rest　of　his　personal　effects　that　the　hospital　had　given　her　to　take　home。　Nobody　had　touched　them。　These　familiar　objects　–　his　key　fob；　his　phone；　his　worn　old　wallet　–　seemed　like　pieces　of　the　dead　man　himself；　they　might　have　been　his　fingers；　his　lungs。

Onwards　and　outwards　the　news　of　Barry’s　death　spread；　radiating；　halo…like；　from　those　who　had　been　at　the　hospital。　Onwards　and　outwards　as　far　as　Yarvil；　reaching　those　who　knew　Barry　only　by　sight　or　reputation　or　by　name。　Gradually　the　facts　lost　form　and　focus；　in　some　cases　they　became　distorted。　In　places；　Barry　himself　was　lost　behind　the　nature　of　his　ending；　and　he　became　no　more　than　an　eruption　of　vomit　and　piss；　a　twitching　pile　of　catastrophe；　and　it　seemed　incongruous；　even　grotesquely　ical；　that　a　man　should　have　died　so　messily　at　the　smug　little　golf　club。

So　it　was　that　Simon　Price；　who　had　been　one　of　the　first　to　hear　about　Barry’s　death；　in　his　house　on　top　of　the　hill　overlooking　Pagford；　met　a　rebounding　version　at　the　Harcourt…Walsh　printworks　in　Yarvil　where　he　had　worked　ever　since　leaving　school。　It　was　borne　to　him　on　the　lips　of　a　young；　gum…chewing　forklift　driver；　whom　Simon　found　skulking　beside　his　office　door；　after　a　late…afternoon　return　from　the　bathroom。

The　boy　had　not　e；　in　the　first　place；　to　discuss　Barry　at　all。

The　boy　chewed　vigorously；　Simon　could　hear　his　saliva　working。　Gum…chewing　was　one　of　Simon’s　many　pet　hates。

‘It’s　the　proper　thing；　though；　is　it？’　Simon　demanded。　‘Not　some　knock…off　piece　of　crap？’

‘e　straight　from　the　warehouse；’　said　the　boy；　shifting　his　feet　and　his　shoulders。　‘Real　thing；　still　boxed　up。’

‘All　right；　then；’　said　Simon。　‘Bring　it　in　Wednesday。’

‘What；　here？’　The　boy　rolled　his　eyes。　‘Nah；　not　to　work；　mate　…　Where　d’you　live？’

‘Pagford；’　said　Simon。

‘Where’bouts　in　Pagford？’

Simon’s　aversion　to　naming　his　home　bordered　on　the　superstitious。　He　not　only　disliked　visitors　–　invaders　of　his　privacy　and　possible　despoilers　of　his　property　–　but　he　saw　Hilltop　House　as　inviolate；　immaculate；　a　world　apart　from　Yarvil　and　the　crashing；　grinding　printworks。

‘I’ll　e　and　pick　it　up　after　work；’　said　Simon；　ignoring　the　question。　‘Where　are　you　keeping　it？’

The　boy　did　not　look　happy。　Simon　glared　at　him。

‘Well；　I’d　need　the　cash　upfront；’　the　forklift　driver　temporized。

‘You　get　the　money　when　I’ve　got　the　goods。’

‘Dun’　work　like　that；　mate。’

Simon　thought　he　might　be　developing　a　headache。　He　could　not　dislodge　the　horrible　idea；　implanted　by　his　careless　wife　that　morning；　that　a　tiny　bomb　might　tick　undetected　for　ages　inside　a　man’s　brain。　The　steady　clatter　and　rumble　of　the　printing　press　beyond　the　door　was　surely　not　good　for　him；　its　relentless　battery　might　have　been　thinning　his　artery　walls　for　years。

‘All　right；’　he　grunted；　and　rolled　over　in　his　chair　to　extract　his　wallet　from　his　back　pocket。　The　boy　stepped　up　to　the　desk；　his　hand　out。

‘D’yeh　live　anywhere　near　Pagford　golf　course？’　he　asked；　as　Simon　counted　out　tenners　into　his　palm。　‘Mate　o’　mine　was　up　there　las’　night；　an’　saw　a　bloke　drop　dead。　Jus’　fuckin’　puked　an’　keeled　over　an’　died　in　the　car　park。’

‘Yeah；　I　heard；’　said　Simon；　massaging　the　last　note　between　his　fingers　before　he　passed　it　over；　to　make　sure　there　were　not　two　stuck　together。

‘Bent　councillor；　he　was。　The　bloke　who　died。　He　was　takin’　backhanders。　Grays　was　paying　him　to　keep　them　on　as　contractors。’

‘Yeah？’　said　Simon；　but　he　was　immensely　interested。

Barry　Fairbrother；　who’d　have　thought　it？

‘I’ll　get　back　ter　yeh；　then；’　said　the　boy；　shoving　the　eighty　pounds　deep　into　his　back　pocket。　‘And　we’ll　go　an’　get　it；　Wednesday。’

The　office　door　closed。　Simon　forgot　his　headache；　which　was　really　no　more　than　a　twinge；　in　his　fascination　at　the　revelation　of　Barry　Fairbrother’s　crookedness。　Barry　Fairbrother；　so　busy　and　sociable；　so　popular　and　cheerful：　and　all　the　time；　trousering　bribes　from　Grays。

The　news　did　not　rock　Simon　as　it　would　have　done　nearly　everybody　else　who　had　known　Barry；　nor　did　it　diminish　Barry　in　his　eyes；　on　the　contrary；　he　felt　an　increased　respect　for　the　dead　man。　Anyone　with　any　brains　was　working；　constantly　and　covertly；　to　grab　as　much　as　they　could；　Simon　knew　that。　He　gazed　unseeingly　at　the　spreadsheet　on　his　puter　screen；　deaf　once　more　to　the　grinding　of　the　printworks　beyond　his　dusty　window。

There　was　no　choice　but　to　work　from　nine　to　five　if　you　had　a　family；　but　Simon　had　always　known　that　there　were　other；　better　ways；　that　a　life　of　ease　and　plenty　dangled　over　his　head　like　a　great　bulging　pi？ata；　which　he　might　smash　open　if　only　he　had　a　stick　big　enough；　and　the　knowledge　of　when　to　strike。

Supernatural　tip…offs　had　accounted　for　several　apparently　quixotic　decisions　in　Simon’s　past。　Years　previously；　when　still　a　lowly　apprentice　at　the　printworks；　with　a　mortgage　he　could　barely　afford　and　a　newly　pregnant　wife；　he　had　bet　one　hundred　pounds　on　a　well…favoured　Grand　National　runner　called　Ruthie’s　Baby；　which　had　fallen　at　the　second　last。　Shortly　after　they　had　bought　Hilltop　House；　Simon　had　sunk　twelve　hundred　pounds；　which　Ruth　had　been　hoping　to　use　for　curtains　and　carpets；　into　a　time…share　scheme　run　by　a　flash；　fiddling　old　acquaintance　from　Yarvil。　Simon’s　investment　had　vanished　with　the　pany　director；　but　although　he　had　raged　and　sworn　and　kicked　his　younger　son　halfway　down　the　stairs　for　getting　in　his　way；　he　had　not　contacted　the　police。

Set　against　these　calamities；　though；　were　strokes　of　luck；　dodges　that　worked；　hunches　that　paid　off；　and　Simon　gave　great　weight　to　these　when　totalling　his　score；　they　were　the　reason　that　he　kept　faith　with　his　stars；　that　reinforced　him　in　his　belief　that　the　universe　had　more　in　store　for　him　than　the　mug’s　game　of　working　for　a　modest　salary　until　he　retired　or　died。　Scams　and　short…cuts；　leg…ups　and　back…scratches；　everyone　was　at　it；　even；　as　it　turned　out；　little　Barry　Fairbrother。

There；　in　his　poky　office；　Simon　Price　gazed　covetously　on　a　vacancy　among　the　ranks　of　insiders　to　a　place　where　cash　was　now　trickling　down　onto　an　empty　chair　with　no　lap　waiting　to　catch　it。

I
Pagford　Parish　Council　was；　for　its　size；　an　impressive　force。　It　met　once　a　month　in　a　pretty　Victorian　church　hall；　and　attempts　to　cut　its　budget；　annex　any　of　its　powers　or　absorb　it　into　some　newfangled　unitary　authority　had　been　strenuously　and　successfully　resisted　for　decades。　Of　all　the　local　councils　under　the　higher　authority　of　Yarvil　District　Council；　Pagford　prided　itself　on　being　the　most　obstreperous；　the　most　vocal　and　the　most　independent。

Until　Sunday　evening；　it　had　prised　sixteen　local　men　and　women。　As　the　town’s　electorate　tended　to　assume　that　a　wish　to　serve　on　the　Parish　Council　implied　petence　to　do　so；　all　sixteen　councillors　had　gained　their　seats　unopposed。

Yet　this　amicably　appointed　body　was　currently　in　a　state　of　civil　war。　An　issue　that　had　been　causing　fury　and　resentment　in　Pagford　for　sixty…odd　years　had　reached　a　definitive　phase；　and　factions　had　rallied　behind　two　charismatic　leaders。

To　grasp　fully　the　cause　of　the　dispute　it　was　necessary　to　prehend　the　precise　depth　of　Pagford’s　dislike　and　mistrust　of　the　city　of　Yarvil；　which　lay　to　its　north。

Yarvil’s　shops；　businesses；　factories；　and　the　South　West　General　Hospital；　provided　the　bulk　of　the　employment　in　Pagford。　The　small　town’s　youths　generally　spent　their　Saturday　nights　in　Yarvil’s　cinemas　and　nightclubs。　The　city　had　a　cathedral；　several　parks　and　two　enormous　shopping　centres；　and　these　things　were　pleasant　enough　to　visit　if　you　had　sated　yourself　on　Pagford’s　superior　charms。　Even　so；　to　true　Pagfordians；　Yarvil　was　little　more　than　a　necessary　evil。　Their　attitude　was　symbolized　by　the　high　hill；　topped　by　Pargetter　Abbey；　which　blocked　Yarvil　from　Pagford’s　sight；　and　allowed　the　townspeople　the　happy　illusion　that　the　city　was　many　miles　further　away　than　it　truly　was。

II
It　so　happened　that　Pargetter　Hill　also　obscured　from　the　town’s　view　another　place；　but　one　that　Pagford　had　always　considered　particularly　its　own。　This　was　Sweetlove　House；　an　exquisite；　honey…coloured　Queen　Anne　manor；　set　in　many　acres　of　park　and　farmland。　It　lay　within　Pagford　Parish；　halfway　between　the　town　and　Yarvil。

For　nearly　two　hundred　years　the　house　had　passed　smoothly　from　generation　to　generation　of　aristocratic　Sweetloves；　until　finally；　in　the　early　1900s；　the　family　had　died　out。　All　that　remained　these　days　of　the　Sweetloves’　long　association　with　Pagford；　was　the　grandest　tomb　in　the　churchyard　of　St　Michael　and　All　Saints；　and　a　smattering　of　crests　and　initials　over　local　records　and　buildings；　like　the　footprints　and　coprolites　of　extinct　creatures。

After　the　death　of　the　last　of　the　Sweetloves；　the　manor　house　had　changed　hands　with　alarming　rapidity。　There　were　constant　fears　in　Pagford　that　some　developer　would　buy　and　mutilate　the　beloved　landmark。　Then；　in　the　1950s；　a　man　called　Aubrey　Fawley　purchased　the　place。　Fawley　was　soon　known　to　be　possessed　of　substantial　private　wealth；　which　he　supplemented　in　mysterious　ways　in　the　City。　He　had　four　children；　and　a　desire　to　settle　permanently。　Pagford’s　approval　was　raised　to　still　giddier　heights　by　the　swiftly　circulated　intelligence　that　Fawley　was　descended；　through　a　collateral　line；　from　the　Sweetloves。　He　was　clearly　half　a　local　already；　a　man　whose　natural　allegiance　would　be　to　Pagford　and　not　to　Yarvil。　Old　Pagford　believed　that　the　advent　of　Aubrey　Fawley　meant　the　return　of　a　charmed　era。　He　would　be　a　fairy　godfather　to　the　town；　like　his　ancestors　before　him；　showering　grace　and　glamour　over　their　cobbled　streets。

Howard　Mollison　could　still　remember　his　mother　bursting　into　their　tiny　kitchen　in　Hope　Street　with　the　news　that　Aubrey　had　been　invited　to　judge　the　local　flower　show。　Her　runner　beans　had　taken　the　vegetable　prize　three　years　in　a　row；　and　she　yearned　to　accept　the　silver…plated　rose　bowl　from　a　man　who　was　already；　to　her；　a　figure　of　old…world　romance。

III
But　then；　so　local　legend　told；　came　the　sudden　darkness　that　attends　the　appearance　of　the　wicked　fairy。

Even　as　Pagford　was　rejoicing　that　Sweetlove　House　had　fallen　into　such　safe　hands；　Yarvil　w