"Guess."
"They've got a good team this year, haven't they? That John Barnes is something else when he gets the ball at his feet..."
His son silently shrugs his shoulders. Gordon decides to try a different tact, anything to keep his mind away from this killer. "So, you break up from school soon, and then it is those dreaded A Levels next year, isn't it? Your studies going okay?"
"Yeah. Just taking a break."
Gordon nods his head. "Obviously we want you to do well, son, but we don't want it to be at the expense of you being happy. You know you don't have to go to university if you don't think it's right for you, don't you?"
Jeffrey fixes him a look. "Really?"
"Of course. We'll be proud of you whatever path you take."
"I don't really know what else there is to do in life. I think I will end up going to university, but I'll keep it in mind."
Gordon pats his son on the shoulder. He'd discussed this with Yvette. Jeffrey was becoming more and more isolated and distant, and if it had anything to do with his studies then they needed to relieve some pressure.
"Any young ladies on the go, son?"
Jeffrey's cheeks redden as he smiles bashfully. This was encouraging. "There is one I like," he says.
"That's the way, son," Gordon says. "Shall we be meeting her soon? I'm sure your mum would love to meet her."
Jeffrey bows his head. "Doubt it. We haven't really spoken yet. She is a bit older than me and to be honest I think she may be out of my league. I may be blowing everything out of proportion."
Gordon laughs. "These things are never easy. She'd be a fool not to fall for you, son. Good luck with it."
"Thanks. I might need it."
"Fancy coming down and watching some TV with us? We don't see much of you these days."
Jeffrey shuffles on the bed. "I'm just going to finish reading this article and then I'm going to do some more study."
"Fair enough. I'm not going to keep you away from your studies."
Gordon stands up and walks to the door. His little man to son chat hadn't gone particularly well, but at least he could tell Yvette that there was a girl on the scene.
"Dad?"
Gordon turns to his son.
"Thanks for asking, yeah."
"Any time, son. Anytime."
Gordon shuts the door and climbs down the stairs. He just hoped that anytime would be some time soon, before it was too late.
DAY SEVEN 7TH JUNE 2018
Back in my day these places served a single, definitive purpose. The shelves were jam-packed with (primarily hardback) books. Revellers rarely spoke and, if they did, they did so in raspy whispers. The librarian was usually old and dusty like the books and they chose to work in a library because they didn't want to speak to other people. The library was where you came to read free books, or where you came to take books away so you didn't have to pay for them.
I hovered around my local library in the months before Emma was born. I was looking for an instruction manual. I wanted to be the best daddy in the whole wide world, I just didn't have the foggiest idea what I was expected to do. And how do you identify normal baby behaviour? As it turned out, the first couple of years, despite the chronic sleep deprivation, were pure bliss. Really, I should have searched for books about the Terrible Twos. For some reason, probably because I didn't pay much attention before I had my own child, I assumed they had something to do with number two's. I'd been dealing with them ever since I changed Emma's first nappy, so what was the big fuss? How wrong I was! I'd dealt with every variety of adult in work, yet I had no idea what to do with a toddler lying down in the middle of a crowded shopping centre, refusing to move.
The world is much more complicated now and, I observe with interest, the library has moved with the times. Today it appears to serve a multitude of purposes. My eyes flicker at the posters as I enter the foyer. What is all this about? Rhythm and Rhyme. Baby Yoga. When did babies take up yoga? I sniff in the fragrant, musty air. Somebody is asleep on the sofa, smothered by plastic shopping bags. Old men browse the newspapers, no doubt already bored with talk of Theresa May's backstop to avoid a hard Irish border. There are rows and rows of other punters with headsets on, listening to music, applying for jobs and watching videos. The attractive librarian is happily speaking to a customer. Taking in my surroundings, my jaw drops.
The rucksack digs into my shoulders. Taking my seat at a solitary table in the corner, I'm overshadowed by the high and commanding bookshelves. I pull the books I collected out of my bag and offload them onto the table. The books slope, reminding me of steps on a staircase. Opening the book on the top of the pile, I'm not quite sure what I'm looking for, just certain that I have a sudden thirst to find out more.
I quickly realised that the crime section was one of the largest in the library. I started at the beginning and my feet shuffled to the right, and they kept on shuffling until finally I was met by a book about cats. Some of the books were about gangsters. Others were about football hooligans. Most, though, were about serial killers. My eyes widened when I realised just how many books there were. It was a simple matter of supply and demand: people wanted to
