The Casual Vacancy

laboriously rolled up his sleeve.
    ‘They’ll be printing Barry’s article before mine,’ he said. ‘You know he sent them an article? About the Fields?’
    ‘Yes,’ she said, against her own better judgement.
    ‘Haven’t got a copy, have you? So I don’t duplicate anything he’s said?’
    Her fingers trembled a little on the cuff. It would not meet around Howard’s arm. She unfastened it and got up to fetch a bigger one.
    ‘No,’ she said, her back to him. ‘I never saw it.’
    He watched her work the pump, and observed the pressure dial with the indulgent smile of a man observing some pagan ritual.
    ‘Too high,’ she told him, as the needle registered one hundred and seventy over a hundred.
    ‘I’m on pills for it,’ he said, scratching where the cuff had been, and letting down his sleeve. ‘Dr Crawford seems happy.’
    She scanned the list of his medications onscreen.
    ‘You’re on amlodipine and bendroflumethiazide for your blood pressure, yes? And simvastatin for your heart … no beta-blocker …’
    ‘Because of my asthma,’ said Howard, tweaking his sleeve straight.
    ‘… right … and aspirin.’ She turned to face him. ‘Howard, your weight is the single biggest factor in all of your health problems. Have you ever been referred to the nutritionist?’
    ‘I’ve run a deli for thirty-five years,’ he said, still smiling. ‘I don’t need teaching about food.’
    ‘A few lifestyle changes could make a big difference. If you were able to lose …’
    With the ghost of a wink, he said comfortably, ‘Keep it simple. All I need is cream for the itch.’
    Venting her temper on the keyboard, Parminder banged out prescriptions for anti-fungal and steroid creams, and when they were printed, handed them to Howard without another word.
    ‘Thank you kindly,’ he said, as he heaved himself out of the chair, ‘and a very good day to you.’

II
    ‘Wha’
d’you
wan’?’
    Terri Weedon’s shrunken body was dwarfed by her own doorway. She put claw-like hands on either jamb, trying to make herself more imposing, barring the entrance. It was eight in the morning; Krystal had just left with Robbie.
    ‘Wanna talk ter yeh,’ said her sister. Broad and mannish in her white vest and tracksuit bottoms, Cheryl sucked on a cigarette and squinted at Terri through the smoke. ‘Nana Cath’s died,’ she said.
    ‘Wha’?’
    ‘Nana Cath’s died,’ repeated Cheryl loudly. ‘Like you fuckin’ care.’
    But Terri had heard the first time. The news had hit her so hard in the guts that she had asked to hear it again out of confusion.
    ‘Are you blasted?’ demanded Cheryl, glaring into the taut and empty face.
    ‘Fuck off. No, I ain’t.’
    It was the truth. Terri had not used that morning; she had not used for three weeks. She took no pride in it; there was no star chart pinned up in the kitchen; she had managed longer than this before, months, even. Obbo had been away for the past fortnight, so it hadbeen easier. But her works were still in the old biscuit tin, and the craving burned like an eternal flame inside her frail body.
    ‘She died yesterday. Danielle on’y fuckin’ bothered to lemme know this mornin’,’ said Cheryl. ‘An’ I were gonna go up the ’ospital an’ see ’er again today. Danielle’s after the ’ouse. Nana Cath’s ’ouse. Greedy bitch.’
    Terri had not been inside the little terraced house on Hope Street for a long time, but when Cheryl spoke she saw, very vividly, the knick-knacks on the sideboard and the net curtains. She imagined Danielle there, pocketing things, ferreting in cupboards.
    ‘Funeral’s Tuesday at nine, up the crematorium.’
    ‘Right,’ said Terri.
    ‘It’s our ’ouse as much as Danielle’s,’ said Cheryl. ‘I’ll tell ’er we wan’ our share. Shall I?’
    ‘Yeah,’ said Terri.
    She watched until Cheryl’s canary hair and tattoos had vanished around the corner, then retreated inside.
    Nana Cath dead. They had not spoken for a long time.
I’m washin’ my ’ands of yeh. I’ve ’ad enough, Terri, I’ve ’ad it.
She had never stopped seeing Krystal, though. Krystal had become her blue-eyed girl. She had been to watch Krystal row in her stupid boat races. She had said Krystal’s name on her deathbed, not Terri’s.
    Fine, then, you old bitch. Like I care. Too late now.
    Tight-chested and trembling, Terri moved through her stinking kitchen in search of cigarettes, but really craving the spoon, the flame and the