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Pagford；　by　contrast；　shone　with　a　kind　of　moral　radiance　in　Howard’s　mind；　as　though　the　collective　soul　of　the　munity　was　made　manifest　in　its　cobbled　streets；　its　hills；　its　picturesque　houses。　To　Howard；　his　birthplace　was　much　more　than　a　collection　of　old　buildings；　and　a　fast…flowing；　tree…fringed　river；　the　majestic　silhouette　of　the　abbey　above　or　the　hanging　baskets　in　the　Square。　For　him；　the　town　was　an　ideal；　a　way　of　being；　a　micro…civilization　that　stood　firmly　against　a　national　decline。

‘I’m　a　Pagford　man；’　he　would　tell　summertime　tourists；　‘born　and　bred。’　In　so　saying；　he　was　giving　himself　a　profound　pliment　disguised　as　a　monplace。　He　had　been　born　in　Pagford　and　he　would　die　there；　and　he　had　never　dreamed　of　leaving；　nor　itched　for　more　change　of　scene　than　could　be　had　from　watching　the　seasons　transform　the　surrounding　woods　and　river；　from　watching　the　Square　blossom　in　spring　or　sparkle　at　Christmas。

Barry　Fairbrother　had　known　all　this；　indeed；　he　had　said　it。　He　had　laughed　right　across　the　table　in　the　church　hall；　laughed　right　in　Howard’s　face。　‘You　know；　Howard；　you　are　Pagford　to　me。’　And　Howard；　not　disposed　in　the　slightest　（for　he　had　always　met　Barry　joke　for　joke）；　had　said；　‘I’ll　take　that　as　a　great　pliment；　Barry；　however　it　was　intended。’

He　could　afford　to　laugh。　The　one　remaining　ambition　of　Howard’s　life　was　within　touching　distance：　the　return　of　the　Fields　to　Yarvil　seemed　imminent　and　certain。

Then；　two　days　before　Barry　Fairbrother　had　dropped　dead　in　a　car　park；　Howard　had　learned　from　an　unimpeachable　source　that　his　opponent　had　broken　all　known　rules　of　engagement；　and　had　gone　to　the　local　paper　with　a　story　about　the　blessing　it　had　been　for　Krystal　Weedon　to　be　educated　at　St　Thomas’s。

The　idea　of　Krystal　Weedon　being　paraded　in　front　of　the　reading　public　as　an　example　of　the　successful　integration　of　the　Fields　and　Pagford　might　（so　Howard　said）　have　been　funny；　had　it　not　been　so　serious。　Doubtless　Fairbrother　would　have　coached　the　girl；　and　the　truth　about　her　foul　mouth；　the　endlessly　interrupted　classes；　the　other　children　in　tears；　the　constant　removals　and　reintegrations；　would　be　lost　in　lies。

Howard　trusted　the　good　sense　of　his　fellow　townsfolk；　but　he　feared　journalistic　spin　and　the　interference　of　ignorant　do…gooders。　His　objection　was　both　principled　and　personal：　he　had　not　yet　forgotten　how　his　granddaughter　had　sobbed　in　his　arms；　with　bloody　sockets　where　her　teeth　had　been；　while　he　tried　to　soothe　her　with　a　promise　of　triple　prizes　from　the　tooth　fairy。

Tuesday
I
Two　mornings　after　her　husband’s　death；　Mary　Fairbrother　woke　at　five　o’clock。　She　had　slept　in　the　marital　bed　with　her　twelve…year…old；　Declan；　who　had　crawled　in；　sobbing；　shortly　after　midnight。　He　was　sound　asleep　now；　so　Mary　crept　out　of　the　room　and　went　down　into　the　kitchen　to　cry　more　freely。　Every　hour　that　passed　added　to　her　grief；　because　it　bore　her　further　away　from　the　living　man；　and　because　it　was　a　tiny　foretaste　of　the　eternity　she　would　have　to　spend　without　him。　Again　and　again　she　found　herself　forgetting；　for　the　space　of　a　heartbeat；　that　he　was　gone　for　ever　and　that　she　could　not　turn　to　him　for　fort。

When　her　sister　and　brother…in…law　came　through　to　make　breakfast；　Mary　took　Barry’s　phone　and　withdrew　into　the　study；　where　she　started　looking　for　the　numbers　of　some　of　Barry’s　huge　acquaintance。　She　had　only　been　at　it　a　matter　of　minutes　when　the　mobile　in　her　hands　rang。

‘Yes？’　she　murmured。

‘Oh；　hello！　I’m　looking　for　Barry　Fairbrother。　Alison　Jenkins　from　the　Yarvil　and　District　Gazette。’

The　young　woman’s　jaunty　voice　was　as　loud　and　horrible　in　Mary’s　ear　as　a　triumphal　fanfare；　the　blast　of　it　obliterated　the　sense　of　the　words。

‘Sorry？’

‘Alison　Jenkins　from　the　Yarvil　and　District　Gazette。　I　want　to　speak　to　Barry　Fairbrother？　It’s　about　his　article　on　the　Fields。’

‘Oh？’　said　Mary。

‘Yes；　he　hasn’t　attached　details　of　this　girl　he　talks　about。　We’re　supposed　to　interview　her。　Krystal　Weedon？’

Each　word　felt　to　Mary　like　a　slap。　Perversely；　she　sat　still　and　silent　in　Barry’s　old　swivel　chair　and　let　the　blows　rain　upon　her。

‘Can　you　hear　me？’

‘Yes；’　said　Mary；　her　voice　cracking。　‘I　can　hear　you。’

‘I　know　Mr　Fairbrother　was　very　keen　to　be　present　when　we　interview　Krystal；　but　time’s　running—’

‘He　won’t　be　able　to　be　present；’　said　Mary；　her　voice　eliding　into　a　screech。　‘He　won’t　be　able　to　talk　about　the　bloody　Fields　any　more；　or　about　anything；　ever　again！’

‘What？’　said　the　girl　on　the　end　of　the　line。

‘My　husband　is　dead；　all　right。　He’s　dead；　so　the　Fields　will　have　to　get　on　without　him；　won’t　they？’

Mary’s　hands　were　shaking　so　much　that　the　mobile　slipped　through　her　fingers；　and　for　the　few　moments　before　she　managed　to　cut　the　call；　she　knew　that　the　journalist　heard　her　ragged　sobs。　Then　she　remembered　that　most　of　Barry’s　last　day　on　earth　and　their　wedding　anniversary　had　been　given　over　to　his　obsession　with　the　Fields　and　Krystal　Weedon；　fury　erupted；　and　she　threw　the　mobile　so　hard　across　the　room　that　it　hit　a　framed　picture　of　their　four　children；　knocking　it　to　the　floor。　She　began　to　scream　and　cry　at　once；　and　her　sister　and　brother…in…law　both　came　running　upstairs　and　burst　into　the　room。
。　
All　they　could　get　out　of　her　at　first　was；　‘The　Fields；　the　bloody；　bloody　Fields　…’

‘It’s　where　me　and　Barry　grew　up；’　her　brother…in…law　muttered；　but　he　explained　no　further；　for　fear　of　inflaming　Mary’s　hysteria。

II
Social　worker　Kay　Bawden　and　her　daughter　Gaia　had　moved　from　London　only　four　weeks　previously；　and　were　Pagford’s　very　newest　inhabitants。　Kay　was　unfamiliar　with　the　contentious　history　of　the　Fields；　it　was　simply　the　estate　where　many　of　her　clients　lived。　All　she　knew　about　Barry　Fairbrother　was　that　his　death　had　precipitated　the　miserable　scene　in　her　city；　when　her　lover　Gavin　had　fled　from　her　and　her　scrambled　eggs；　and　so　dashed　all　the　hopes　his　love…making　had　roused　in　her。

Kay　spent　Tuesday　lunchtime　in　a　layby　between　Pagford　and　Yarvil；　eating　a　sandwich　in　her　car；　and　reading　a　large　stack　of　notes。　One　of　her　colleagues　had　been　signed　off　work　due　to　stress；　with　the　immediate　result　that　Kay　had　been　lumbered　with　a　third　of　her　cases。　Shortly　before　one　o’clock；　she　set　off　for　the　Fields。

She　had　already　visited　the　estate　several　times；　but　she　was　not　yet　familiar　with　the　warren…like　streets。　At　last　she　found　Foley　Road；　and　identified　from　a　distance　the　house　that　she　thought　must　belong　to　the　Weedons。　The　file　had　made　it　clear　what　she　was　likely　to　meet；　and　her　first　glimpse　of　the　house　met　her　expectations。

A　pile　of　refuse　was　heaped　against　the　front　wall：　carrier　bags　bulging　with　filth；　jumbled　together　with　old　clothes　and　unbagged；　soiled　nappies。　Bits　of　the　rubbish　had　tumbled　or　been　scattered　over　the　scrubby　patch　of　lawn；　but　the　bulk　of　it　remained　piled　beneath　one　of　the　two　downstairs　windows。　A　bald　old　tyre　sat　in　the　middle　of　the　lawn；　it　had　been　shifted　some　time　recently；　because　a　foot　away　there　was　a　flattened　yellowish…brown　circle　of　dead　grass。　After　ringing　the　doorbell；　Kay　noticed　a　used　condom　glistening　in　the　grass　beside　her　feet；　like　the　gossamer　cocoon　of　some　huge　grub。

She　was　experiencing　that　slight　apprehension　that　she　had　never　quite　overe；　although　it　was　nothing　pared　to　the　nerves　with　which　she　had　faced　unknown　doors　in　the　early　days。　Then；　in　spite　of　all　her　training；　in　spite　of　the　fact　that　a　colleague　usually　acpanied　her；　she　had；　on　occasion；　been　truly　afraid。　Dangerous　dogs；　men　brandishing　knives；　children　with　grotesque　injuries；　she　had　found　them　all；　and　worse；　in　her　years　of　entering　strangers’　houses。

She　knocked　again；　sooner　than　she　would　have　done　if　she　had　not　wanted　to　distract　herself　from　her　own　thoughts；　and　this　time；　a　distant　voice　said；　‘I’m　fuckin’　in’。’

The　door　swung　open　to　reveal　a　woman　who　appeared　simultaneously　child…like　and　ancient；　dressed　in　a　dirty　pale…blue　T…shirt　and　a　pair　of　men’s　pyjama　bottoms。　She　was　the　same　height　as　Kay；　but　shrunken；　the　bones　of　her　face　and　sternum　showed　sharply　through　the　thin　white　skin。　Her　hair；　which　was　home…dyed；　coarse　and　very　red；　looked　like　a　wig　on　top　of　a　skull；　her　pupils　were　minuscule　and　her　chest　virtually　breastless。

‘Hello；　are　you　Terri？　I’m　Kay　Bawden；　from　Social　Services。　I’m　covering　for　Mattie　Knox。’

There　were　silvery　pockmarks　all　over　the　woman’s　fragile　grey…white　arms；　and　an　angry　red；　open　sore　on　the　inside　of　one　forearm。　A　wide　area　of　scar　tissue　on　her　right　arm　and　lower　neck　gave　the　skin　a　shiny　plastic　appearance。　Kay　had　known　an　addict　in　London　who　had　accidentally　set　fire　to　her　house；　and　realized　too　late　what　was　happening。

‘Yeah；　righ’；’　said　Terri；　after　an　overlong　pause。　When　she　spoke；　she　seemed　much　older；　several　of　her　teeth　were　missing。　She　turned　her　back　on　Kay　and　took　a　few　unsteady　steps　down　the　dark　hallway。　Kay　followed。　The　house　smelt　of　stale　food；　of　sweat；　of　unshifted　filth。　Terri　led　Kay　through　the　first　door　on　the　left；　into　a　tiny　sitting　room。

There　were　no　books；　no　pictures；　no　photographs；　no　television；　nothing　except　a　pair　of　filthy　old　armchairs　and　a　broken　set　of　shelves。　Debris　littered　the　floor。　A　pile　of　brand…new　cardboard　boxes　piled　against　the　wall　struck　an　incongruous　note。

A　bare…legged　little　boy　was　standing　in　the　middle　of　the　floor；　dressed　in　a　T…shirt　and　a　bulging　pull…up　nappy。　Kay　knew　from　the　file　that　he　was　three　and　a　half。　His　whining　seemed　unconscious　and　unmotivated；　a　sort　of　engine　noise　to　signal　that　he　was　there。　He　was　clutching　a　miniature　cereal　packet。

‘So　this　must　be　Robbie？’　said　Kay。

The　boy　looked　at　her　when　she　said　his　name；　but　kept　grizzling。

Terri　shoved　aside　a　scratched　old　biscuit　tin；　which　had　been　sitting　on　one　of　the　dirty　frayed　armchairs；　and　curled　herself　into　the　seat；　watching　Kay　from　beneath　drooping　eyelids。　Kay　took　the　other　chair；　on　the　arm　of　which　was　perched　an　overflowing　ashtray。　Cigarette　ends　had　fallen　into　the　seat　of　Kay’s　chair；　she　could　feel　them　beneath　her　thighs。

‘Hello；　Robbie；’　said　Kay；　opening　Terri’s　file。

The　little　boy　continued　to　whine；　shaking　the　cereal　packet；　something　inside　it　rattled。

‘What　have　you　got　in　there？’　Kay　asked。

He　did　not　answer；　but　shook　the　packet　more　vigorously。　A　small　plastic　figure　flew　out　of　it；　soared　in　an　arc　and　fell　down　behind　the　cardboard　boxes。　Robbie　began　to　wail。　Kay　watched　Terri；　who　was　staring　at　her　son；　blank…faced。　Eventually；　Terri　murmured；　‘S’up；　Robbie？’

‘Shall　we　see　if　we　can　get　it　out？’　said　Kay；　quite　glad　of　a　reason　to　stand　up　and　brush　down　the　back　of　her　legs。　‘Let’s　have　a　look。’

Robbie’s　wailing　ceased；　he　took　the　figure　and　put　it　back　inside　the　cereal　packet；　which　he　started　to　shake　again。

Kay　glanced　around。　Two　small　toy　cars　lay　upside　down　under　the　broken　shelves。

‘Do　you　like　cars？’　Kay　asked　Robbie；　pointing　at　them。

He　did　not　follow　the　direction　of　her　finger；　but　squinted　at　her　with　a　mixture　of　calculation　and　curiosity。　Then　he　trotted　off　and　picked　up　a　car　and　held　it　up　for　her　to　see。

‘Broom；’　he　said。　‘Ca。’

‘That’s　right；’　said　Kay。　‘Very　good。　Car。　Broom　broom。’

There　was　a　pause　before　Terri　said；　‘All　righ’。’

‘Just　to　explain：　Mattie　has　been　signed　off　sick；　so　I’m　covering　for　her。　I’ll　need　to　go　over　some　of　the　information　she’s　left　me；　to　check　that　nothing’s　changed　since　she　saw　you　last　week；　all　right？

‘So；　let’s　see：　Robbie　is　in　nursery　now；　isn’t　he？　Four　mornings　a　week　and　two　afternoons？’

Kay’s　voice　seemed　to　reach　Terri　only　distantly。　It　was　like　talking　to　somebody　sitting　at　the　bottom　of　a　well。

‘Yeah；’　she　said；　after　a　pause。

‘How’s　that　going？　Is　he　enjoying　it？’

Robbie　crammed　the　matchbox　car　into　the　cereal　box。　He　picked　up　one　of　the　cigarette　butts　that　had　fallen　off　Kay’s　trousers；　and　squashed　it　on　top　of　the　car　and　the　purple　Buddha。

‘Yeah；’　said　Terri