to be a credit to you? I never wanted him to go to your school!’
‘And I,’ bellowed Colin, jumping to his feet, ‘never bloody wanted him at all!’
‘Don’t say that!’ gasped Tessa. ‘I know you’re angry – but don’t say that!’
The front door slammed two floors below them. Tessa looked around, frightened, as though Fats might materialize instantly beside them. It wasn’t merely the noise that had made her start. Stuart never slammed the front door; he usually slipped in and out like a shape-shifter.
His familiar tread on the stairs; did he know, or suspect they were in his room? Colin was waiting, with his fists clenched by his sides. Tessa heard the creak of the halfway step, and then Fats stood before them. She was sure he had arranged his expression in advance: a mixture of boredom and disdain.
‘Afternoon,’ he said, looking from his mother to his rigid, tense father. He had all the self-possession that Colin had never had. ‘This is a surprise.’
Desperate, Tessa tried to show him the way.
‘Dad was worried about where you are,’ she said, with a plea in her voice. ‘You said you were going to be with Arf today, but Dad saw—’
‘Yeah, change of plan,’ said Fats.
He glanced towards the place where the matchbox had been.
‘So, do you want to tell us where you’ve been?’ asked Colin. There were white patches around his mouth.
‘Yeah, if you like,’ said Fats, and he waited.
‘Stu,’ said Tessa, half whisper, half groan.
‘I’ve been out with Krystal Weedon,’ said Fats.
‘You’ve what?’ said Colin, so taken aback that he forgot to sound aggressive.
‘I’ve been out with Krystal Weedon,’ Fats repeated, a little more loudly.
‘And since when,’ said Colin, after an infinitesimal pause, ‘has she been a friend of yours?’
‘A while,’ said Fats.
Tessa could see Colin struggling to formulate a question too grotesque to utter.
‘You should have told us, Stu,’ she said.
‘Told you what?’ he said.
She was frightened that he was going to push the argument to a dangerous place.
‘Where you were going,’ she said, standing up and trying to look matter of fact. ‘Next time, call us.’
She looked towards Colin in the hope that he might follow her lead and move towards the door. He remained fixed in the middle of the room, staring at Fats in horror.
‘Are you… involved with Krystal Weedon?’ Colin asked.
They faced each other, Colin taller by a few inches, but Fats holding all the power.
‘“Involved”?’ Fats repeated. ‘What d’you mean, “involved”?’
‘You know what I mean!’ said Colin, his face growing red.
‘D’you mean, am I shagging her?’ asked Fats.
Tessa’s little cry of ‘Stu!’ was drowned by Colin shouting, ‘How bloody dare you!’
Fats merely looked at Colin, smirking. Everything about him was a taunt and a challenge.
‘What?’ said Fats.
‘Are you –’ Colin was struggling to find the words, growing redder all the time, ‘– are you sleeping with Krystal Weedon?’
‘It wouldn’t be a problem if I was, would it?’ Fats asked, and he glanced at his mother as he said it. ‘You’re all for helping Krystal, aren’t you?’
‘Helping—’
‘Aren’t you trying to keep that addiction clinic open so you can help Krystal’s family?’
‘What’s that got to do—?’
‘I can’t see what the problem is with me going out with her.’
‘And
His smirk sickened her. He was not prepared even to pretend to some decency.
‘Well, we don’t do it in either of our houses, do—’
Colin had raised one of his stiff, clench-fisted arms and swung it. He connected with Fats’ cheek, and Fats, whose attention had been on his mother, was caught off guard; he staggered sideways, hit the desk and slid, momentarily, to the floor. A moment later he had jumped to his feet again, but Tessa had already placed herself between the pair of them, facing her son.
Behind her, Colin was repeating, ‘You little bastard. You little bastard.’
‘Yeah?’ said Fats, and he was no longer smirking. ‘I’d rather be a little bastard than be you, you arsehole!’
‘No!’ shouted Tessa. ‘Colin, get out.
Horrified, furious and shaken, Colin lingered for a moment, then marched from the room; they heard him stumble a little on the stairs.
‘How could you?’ Tessa whispered to her son.
‘How could I fucking what?’ said Stuart, and the look on his face alarmed her so much that she hurried to close and bar the bedroom door.
‘You’re taking advantage of that girl, Stuart, and you know it, and the way you just spoke to your—’
‘The fuck I am,’ said Fats, pacing up and down, every semblance of cool gone. ‘The fuck I’m taking advantage of her. She knows exactly what she wants – just because she lives in the fucking Fields, it doesn’t – the truth is, you and Cubby don’t want me to shag her because you think she’s beneath—’
‘That’s not true!’ said Tessa, even though it was, and for all her concern about Krystal, she would still have been glad to know that Fats had sense enough to wear a condom.
‘You’re fucking hypocrites, you and Cubby,’ he said, still pacing the length of the bedroom. ‘All the bollocks the pair of you spout about wanting to help the Weedons, but you don’t want—’
‘That’s enough!’ shouted Tessa. ‘Don’t you dare speak to me like that! Don’t you realise – don’t you understand – are you so damn selfish…?’
Words failed her. She turned, tugged open his door and was gone, slamming it behind her.
Her exit had an odd effect on Fats, who stopped pacing and stared at the closed door for several seconds. Then he searched his pockets, drew out a cigarette and lit it, not bothering to blow the smoke out of the skylight. Round and round his room he walked, and he had no control of his own thoughts: jerky, unedited images filled his brain, sweeping past on a tide of fury.
He remembered the Friday evening, nearly a year previously, when Tessa had come up here to his bedroom to tell him that his father wanted to take him out to play football with Barry and his sons next day.
(‘What?’ Fats had been staggered. The suggestion was unprecedented.
‘For fun. A kick-around,’ Tessa had said, avoiding Fats’ glare by scowling down at the clothes littering the floor.
‘Why?’
‘Because Dad thought it might be nice,’ said Tessa, bending to pick up a school shirt. ‘Declan wants a practice, or something. He’s got a match.’
Fats was quite good at football. People found it surprising; they expected him to dislike sport, to disdain teams. He played as he talked, skilfully, with many a feint, fooling the clumsy, daring to take chances, unconcerned if they did not come off.
‘I didn’t even know he could play.’
‘Dad can play very well, he was playing twice a week when we met,’ said Tessa, riled. ‘Ten o’clock tomorrow morning, all right? I’ll wash your tracksuit bottoms.’)
Fats sucked on his cigarette, remembering against his will. Why had he gone along with it? Today, he would have simply refused to participate in Cubby’s little charade, but remained in bed until the shouting died away. A year ago he had not yet understood about authenticity.
