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than malicious. Cook’s misfortune had broken the tension and, faces saved, the group scattered and scampered away.
    â€œAre you alright?”
    The question could have been directed either way, but it came from Cook to John Ray.
    â€œYes.”
    Ray sniffed. He took out the handkerchief, wiped his nose, buried it back in his pocket. As they walked, Cook offered one of his sweets, but Ray shook his head. For him, kindness was to be feared – it was a feint, a prelude to cruelty.
    The road levelled off near the iron bridge. Ray quickened his pace and broke away with a doubtful, “See you later!” Cook was surprised to hear that his speaking voice was clipped and precise – almost posh.
    At home, Cook dropped off his school-bag and headed straight out to call on Lisa Goldstraw. Her mum made them both a glass of diluted orange juice and they sat drinking, side by side, on the two swings at the bottom of Lisa’s vast, immaculate garden.
    â€œLisa?” enquired Cook.
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œWill you go out with me?”
    She considered this, tugging both stockings over her knees. “I can’t. I really like you, but I’m already going out with someone.”
    â€œBut I could be, like, your second boyfriend?”
    Her silence told him this wasn’t possible. He hopped off the swing and wandered into the kitchen, where Lisa’s mum had propped baby Rebecca in a high-chair and was smearing primary-coloured puree into her reluctant mouth. Rebecca squealed with joy at the sight of Cook. She strained her tubby arms to full stretch, reaching for him. Mrs Goldstraw smiled and handed Cook the jar of baby food. He rattled the spoon around and scraped out a blob of something that smelt of sweetened carrots. Rebecca was stilled. Her shining eyes tracked the spoon’s movement as Cook lifted it towards her mouth, which opened wide, received the food and immediately re-opened for more.

9. Catching Up

    WILLIAM STONE DRAINED HIS glass and rose for a second round. He quickly returned from the bar with two fresh drinks, handed one to Cook and clinked cheers. Cook had barely broken the surface of his original pint, but awkwardly slurped at the foam from the new glass.
    â€œLook at him!” laughed Stone. “Two on the fucking go! What a lightweight!”
    Cook tilted his glass and took on more beer than was comfortable. The liquid was lukewarm and chemical. Bubbles spiralled up into his nose and he had to disguise a gag as a cough.
    â€œHow’s the cholesterol?” A deflection.
    Stone lifted an eyebrow, wrinkling his brow. Here, in a mangy corner of the
Seven Stars
, under the hundred-watt scrutiny of a mock-antique lantern, Cook saw that the whites of his friend’s eyes were scored with deep red capillaries, branching and pooling into bloodshot halos around the socket edges.
    â€œQuack put me on some pills, printed out a little info sheet. Usual – more exercise, no smoking or decent food. I had a scare last autumn. I dunno. Gotta die of something.”
    He finished off half of his pint in what looked like a single gulp. Cook reverted to his first glass and manfully cut the content by around a third. The effort made his vision blur.
    â€œHow’s Gina?” Stone asked, eyeing his drink lustfully, as if pondering how soon he could dive back in for the second half without appearing dependant. Stone had always given Cook the impression that he was a drinker by personality and capacity, when in fact he used alcohol as more of a tool than a toy – to dull the ache of a desolate marriage that was slouching towards divorce.
    â€œShe’s good, yeah,” spluttered Cook, mid-drink. “I mentioned I’d seen you and she said to say hello.”
    Stone smiled, looked up from his glass and held Cook’s gaze a little, sensing – and expecting – more.
    â€œBut… Ah, you know. We’re holding it together. Her folks would fucking disown