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possibly
have meaning?’
    ‘Light is needed,’ said George, ‘and space and a better use of concrete. Ideally they should build their own dwellings to
their own needs.’
    Jesus, thought Balfour, hanging his head in defeat.
    Joseph continued, ‘You see, in proper planning they’d know that people need to be in a community. They’d know that ugly surroundings
imprison a man and that beauty liberates him.
They’d use colours and play areas and they’d leave the trees standing.’
    ‘The trees should be left,’ said Balfour. ‘I agree they should leave the trees. B-but half the bloody kids in the flats would
pull them out by the roots. And they did try a playground bit in the new flats and a square of green, down in Windsor Street,
and every morning you couldn’t see the grass for the f-french letters.’
    Joseph laughed, leaning his head back and bringing his hands down hard on his knees to express his approval.
    ‘It’s more than grass that’s needed,’ Balfour said. ‘It’s not a question of needing to flourish. It’s more just l-living that’s
wanted. There’s this woman, Mrs Conran, with a lad called Billy – she’s got a grown daughter with two kids of her own in the
same two-roomed flat and Billy suddenly doesn’t turn up at the club or school for that matter. So I go to see her and I say,
putting my foot in the door, “Hallo, Mrs Conran,” – they love that – “How’s your Billy? Wondered why he hasn’t been to the
club like.” And she says, “Our Billy’s sick, Mr Whatsit.” And I say, “Can I come in and have a word with him, Mrs Conran?”
And she says, “He’s sick like, Mr Whatsit.” Anyway I get into the place and in a cot in the room is Mrs Conran’s daughter’s
two kids, both under three, sucking milk from a Tizer bottle. Billy Conran’s lying on a blanket on the floor with his face
turned to the wall, and a bloody big growth just like a mushroom growing on the plaster above his head, and I say, “Not so
good, eh, Billy lad? Wondered why you didn’t come to the club like.” And Billy’s not saying a word because he can’t put two
words together anyway, and Mrs Conran says, “It’s like he don’t want to face the world, Mr Whatsit.” Can you beat that?’ Balfour
let the words keep coming. ‘And while I’m trying to figure that one out, in comes Mrs Conran’s daughter from the kitchen with
a fella and Ma Conran says, “Mr Whatsit’s here, Lil,” and Lil goes back into the kitchen with her drawers in her hand and
the bloke goes out of the door and Billy just lies there …’
    ‘There’ve been worse things,’ George said, ‘much worse things. Systematic killing.’
    ‘Oh Christ,’ groaned Balfour irritably. ‘Don’t start that again.’ He belched loudly.
    ‘I’ve not seen him like this before,’ said George.
    Balfour raised his head in defiance, but it was suddenly too heavy for his neck and he leaned over his knees, thinking about
some baby in a bath that he had wanted to drown. He had wanted to flush the baby down the plug hole, fat legs kicking … going
bell-tinkle … whose baby …? ‘Who’s fatty?’ he asked Joseph, suddenly looking up.
    ‘Who is fatty?’ articulated Joseph, smiling. ‘No idea, old chap.’
    The rocking chair thudded forward as George vacated it. ‘I think he’d better go to bed … I think my father would like him to
go to bed.’
    ‘Are you receiving telepathic information or something? Is that it?’ Joseph wagged his finger at George, not sure if his voice
was sufficiently jocular. He didn’t want to upset George. Changing the subject he asked, as if interested, which he wasn’t,
‘Is his name really Balfour, George? I mean, is it Balfour something, or something Balfour?’
    Hearing his name, the tool-fitter swung his head from side to side.
    ‘The declaration of the Jewish state,’ said George at the doorway, propping it open with his back, watching the sway of his
scarf ends in the night air.
    ‘He’s