The Casual Vacancy

as Barry.’
    But Colin’s only understanding of love was of limitless loyalty, boundless tolerance: Mary had fallen, irreparably, in his estimation.

IX
    ‘And where are you going?’ asked Simon, planting himself squarely in the middle of the tiny hall.
    The front door was open, and the glass porch behind him, full of shoes and coats, was blinding in the bright Saturday morning sun,turning Simon into a silhouette. His shadow rippled up the stairs, just touching the one on which Andrew stood.
    ‘Into town with Fats.’
    ‘Homework all finished, is it?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    It was a lie; but Simon would not bother to check.
    ‘Ruth?
Ruth!
’
    She appeared at the kitchen door, wearing an apron, flushed, with her hands covered in flour.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Do we need anything from town?’
    ‘What? No, I don’t think so.’
    ‘Taking my bike, are you?’ demanded Simon of Andrew.
    ‘Yeah, I was going to—’
    ‘Leaving it at Fats’ house?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘What time do we want him back?’ Simon asked, turning to Ruth again.
    ‘Oh, I don’t know, Si,’ said Ruth impatiently. The furthest she ever went in irritation with her husband was on occasions when Simon, though basically in a good mood, started laying down the law for the fun of it. Andrew and Fats often went into town together, on the vague understanding that Andrew would return before it became dark.
    ‘Five o’clock, then,’ said Simon arbitrarily. ‘Any later and you’re grounded.’
    ‘Fine,’ Andrew replied.
    He kept his right hand in his jacket pocket, clenched over a tightly folded wad of paper, intensely aware of it, like a ticking grenade. The fear of losing this piece of paper, on which was inscribed a line of meticulously written code, and a number of crossed-out, reworked and heavily edited sentences, had been plaguing him for a week. He had been keeping it on him at all times, and sleeping with it inside his pillowcase.
    Simon barely moved aside, so that Andrew had to edge past him into the porch, his fingers clamped over the paper. He was terrifiedthat Simon would demand that he turn out his pockets, ostensibly looking for cigarettes.
    ‘Bye, then.’
    Simon did not answer. Andrew proceeded into the garage, where he took out the note, unfolded it and read it. He knew that he was being irrational, that mere proximity to Simon could not have magically switched the papers, but still he made sure. Satisfied that all was safe, he refolded it, tucked it deeper into his pocket, which fastened with a stud, then wheeled the racing bike out of the garage and down through the gate into the lane. He could tell that his father was watching him through the glass door of the porch, hoping, Andrew was sure, to see him fall off or mistreat the bicycle in some way.
    Pagford lay below Andrew, slightly hazy in the cool spring sun, the air fresh and tangy. Andrew sensed the point at which Simon’s eyes could no longer follow him; it felt as though pressure had been removed from his back.
    Down the hill into Pagford he streaked, not touching the brakes; then he turned into Church Row. Approximately halfway along the street he slowed down and cycled decorously into the drive of the Walls’ house, taking care to avoid Cubby’s car.
    ‘Hello, Andy,’ said Tessa, opening the front door to him.
    ‘Hi, Mrs Wall.’
    Andrew accepted the convention that Fats’ parents were laughable. Tessa was plump and plain, her hairstyle was odd and her dress sense embarrassing, while Cubby was comically uptight; yet Andrew could not help but suspect that if the Walls had been his parents, he might have been tempted to like them. They were so civilized, so courteous. You never had the feeling, in their house, that the floor might suddenly give way and plunge you into chaos.
    Fats was sitting on the bottom stair, putting on his trainers. A packet of loose tobacco was clearly visible, peeking out of the breast pocket of his jacket.
    ‘Arf.’
    ‘Fats.’
    ‘D’you want to leave your father’s bicycle in the garage, Andy?’
    ‘Yeah, thanks, Mrs Wall.’
    (She always, he reflected, said ‘your father’, never ‘your dad’. Andrew knew that Tessa detested Simon; it was one of the things that made him pleased to overlook the horrible shapeless clothes she wore, and the unflattering blunt-cut fringe.
    Her antipathy dated from that horrific epoch-making occasion, years and years before, when a six-year-old Fats had come to spend Saturday afternoon at Hilltop House