The Casual Vacancy

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
are
you going out with her?’ asked Tessa sharply. If Fats wanted to take the row into this territory, she would meet him there. ‘Do you actually
go
anywhere with her, Stuart?’
    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.
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.
    (Instead he had left the house with Cubby and endured a silent five-minute walk, each equally aware of the enormous shortfall that filled all the space between them.
    The playing field