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Des closed his eyes and saw himself in the granny flat at the age of thirteen. He was, as usual, weeping into his sleeve — while Gran stroked his hair and softly hummed along with that emollient melody, ‘Hey Jude’. Hey Jude, don’t make it bad, Take a sad song And make it better. The hugs, the hand-clasps, the vast and trackless silences. Gran said that grief was like the sea; you had to ride the tides (So let it out and let it in, hey Jude, begin), and then, after months, after years …

Now in the sidestreet two hammer drills revved up, atomising his thoughts. And just then an old janitor (the one with the ponytail and the dented cheeks) stuck his head round the door.

‘Why you not in school?’

‘Got a project,’ said Des. And reapplied himself to his Sun.

International news. Slaughter in Darfur. N. Korea’s breakout N-test? Dozens slain in Mex drug clash … After a look over his shoulder, he reached out an unsteady hand for the Independent (which was at least recognisably tabloidal in size). He expected the spidery print to exclude him. But it didn’t; it let him in … Des read all the international news in the Independent, and then moved on to the Times. When he looked at his watch it was half past four (and he was keenly hungry).

He had spent eight hours in the place called World.

‘I’ve been reading the papers.’

‘What papers?’

‘The proper ones. The Guardian and that.’

‘You don’t want to read the papers, Des,’ said Lionel, turning the page of his Morning Lark and smoothly realigning its wings: Hubbie Nabbed Over Wheelie Bin Corpse Find. With a look of the sharpest disappoval, he added, ‘All that’s none of you concern.’

‘So you don’t follow it — all that … Uncle Li, why are we in Iraq?’ Lionel turned the page: Noreen’s Lezbo Boob Romp Shock. ‘Or don’t you know about Iraq?’

‘Course I know about Iraq,’ he said without looking up. ‘9/11, mate. See, Des, on 9/11, these blokes with J-cloths on they heads went and —’

‘But Iraq had nothing to do with 9/11!’

‘So? … Des, you being very naïve. See, America’s top boy. He’s the Daddy. And after a fucking liberty like 9/11, well, it’s all off, and the Daddy lashes out.’

‘Yeah, but who at?’

‘Doesn’t matter who at. Anyone’ll do. Like me and Ross Knowles. It’s the moron theory. Keeps them all honest.’

Lionel turned the page: Knife Yobs Dodge Nick, Proves Probe. Des sat back and said wonderingly,

‘When it started, Uncle Li. I mean don’t we have allies in the region? They can’t’ve been too happy about it. The instability. Our allies in the region.’

‘Allies?’ said Lionel wearily. ‘What allies?’

‘Uh, Saudi Arabia. Turkey … Egypt. I bet they weren’t too pleased.’

So? Jesus Christ, Des, you can’t half bang on.’

‘They’re our allies. What did we tell them?’

Lionel dropped his head. ‘What d’you think we told them? We told them, Listen. We doing Iraq, all right? And if you fucking want some, you can fucking have some and all.’ He levelled his shoulders. ‘Now shut it. I’m reading this.’

And Des entertained the image of a planet-sized Hobgoblin at twelve o’clock on a Friday night. This was the place called World.

‘Gaa. Look, Des. More GILFs.’

The cat was there again. The cat was there again — at the end of the tunnel that led to Grace. Hairless and whiskerless, as bald as a white hotwater bottle, with its soft, ancient, ear-hurting cry … He pressed the bell, and heard the fluffy pink slippers padding towards the mat (as the tape played ‘Dear Prudence’).

‘Gran,’ he was almost immediately saying. ‘The groans.’

‘Groans? What are you talking about?’

He told her. ‘And you don’t groan, do you,’ he said. ‘Do you?’

‘… I do groan,’ she said carefully. ‘Now and then. You just don’t notice. Ah, old Dud, what would he know?’

‘Stop laughing like that! How many Dubonnets’ve you had?’

‘Now you stay just where you are, young sir.’

‘No, Grace … Well get a pillow then. In case you groan. And put the Beatles up!’

Later, as she smoked a thickly appreciated Silk Cut, Grace said mysteriously (and she would not enlarge on it), ‘Oh, Des, you’re gorgeous. But the trouble is … The trouble is, love, you’ve been giving me ideas!’

8

ANOTHER WEEK PASSED. Then it all came to a head — on a day of three-ply horror for Desmond Pepperdine.

Another week passed, and by now Des had more or less given up on Daphne, on Daphne and her counsel. And yet there it was, in the Sun on Saturday (on Saturdays Daphne commanded a two-page spread). All the other letters bore headlines (I Feel Like a Tart As I Can’t Stop Bedding Strangers, Trapped in a Man’s Body, I Want to Wed My Dead Hubbie’s Dad, Heartbreak at Text Cheat, Grief Over Mum Won’t Lift); but Des’s plea was untitled, and appeared in the bottom left-hand corner against a funereal background of dark grey.

Dear Daphne, I’m a young man from Kensington in Liverpool, and I’ve been having sexual relations with my grandmother. Could you explain the legal situation?

DAPHNE SAYS: This must end at once! You are both committing statutory rape, and could face a custodial sentence. Write again urgently with a PO address, and I will send you my leaflet, Intrafamilial Sexual Abuse and the Law.

Des spent the rest of the day on Steep Slope, stumbling from bench to bench. He could hear the brittle fairground music swirling up from Happy Valley; and the air was dotted with spores of moisture that couldn’t quite become rain. Something dark seemed to be growing bigger on the other side of the rise.

* * *

At seven o’clock Lionel shouldered his way into the kitchen with a great load of dog gear in his arms. He halted and his head jerked back.

‘… The tank’s open.’

‘Yeah, I tried it,’ said Des quietly, ‘and the lid just came up. But now it won’t shut.’

‘There you are then.’ With a crash Lionel dropped the tangled mass on to the counter — lunge poles, break sticks, and four thick leather collars with pyramidal steel spikes. ‘You been sitting on it.’

Des’s brow never rippled when he frowned, but tonight his eyes felt (and looked) very close together, like a levelled figure eight. He now saw that Lionel had a newspaper in his sweatpants pocket: not the Morning Lark, not the Diston Gazette (also a red-top tabloid) — but the Sun!

Lionel uncapped a Cobra three inches from Des’s left ear, saying,

‘Dire news about you gran.’

His voice cracked as he whispered, ‘Oh yeah, Uncle Li?’

‘The plot thickens … I had another talk with old Dud. It’s not only groans, Des.’

‘Uh, what else?’

‘Giggles. Giggles. So it’s not pain, is it. It’s not pain. And you know what else?’

Des was scratching his chest with both sets of fingernails.

‘She’s started turning the music up loud! … Tuesday night Dud said he heard giggles. Then the music went up. And that ain’t the clincher.’ He stuck his tongue out and removed a hair from it. ‘You won’t believe this, Des, but the old …’