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tightening across his chest as he paid for the Stella and passed the paper back. He struggled to breathe until he was out of the door and heading for the beer garden, staring at the back wall of the Whitehouse place.
    He slumped on a bench and gulped at his pint. He had a fierce thirst. One of the other tables outside was occupied – four girls in hockey club sweatshirts and ponytails. They watched him for a moment then went back to their conversation. He stared at them, then looked over at Salisbury Crags for a moment. Then he turned and looked at the wall.
    His left leg was trembling. He put a hand on it but it didn’t stop. He spilled some beer on his jeans, then got up‚ glugging his pint‚ and walked towards the wall. He tried to put on a nonchalant amble, like he was just stretching his legs. He walked the length of the wall to the back of the beer garden and pretended to study a sign detailing the rules and regulations for the pub car park. The hockey girls occasionally glanced over at him.
    He stood there drinking till his glass was almost empty, then turned and began sauntering back. Took a final few gulps of beer, his hand shaking as he lifted the pint to his lips. Put the empty glass down on a table then began striding towards the Whitehouses’ back wall. The hockey girls were watching him but he didn’t turn round.
    He got to the wall and grabbed the rough stonework, hoisting himself up so that he was quickly on top, his body pressed against the fence there. He laid his hands carefully on the barbed wire at the top of the fence, then brought his foot up to the same level. As he put his weight on it, the fence wobbled and the wire dug into his hands. In a quick movement he heaved himself up and on to the fence, the barbs piercing the skin of his palms, the wooden lattice creaking under his weight, then he launched himself into the Whitehouses’ back garden.
    He stared at his hands.
    Drops of blood were forming at several small puncture wounds. He crouched down and wiped his palms on the grass. The lawn was cut short and his hands left dark streaks across the nap of the grass.
    He straightened up and looked around. He could see the pond and the treehouse, one wall of the main building. The foliage of the trees dappled everything in evening sunlight.
    The air was still, clogged with pollen, gangs of midges dancing in the light as he took a few steps forward. The summerhouse was to his left, sitting in a suntrap out of sight of the main house. The sun glanced off the large front window. Behind the window, he thought he saw movement.
    The reflection of the sun was blinding, his head thudding. He remembered the painkillers in his pocket. He fished them out and took two, snorting phlegm into his mouth to swallow them.
    He crept towards the summerhouse. As he got nearer, the angle of the reflected sunlight changed and the inside of the building was revealed. Sitting on a low, cream sofa was Adele Whitehouse, no sunglasses, hair tied back from her face, bare feet tucked under her. She had a small copper hash pipe raised to her lips, a lighter held to the bowl. Her eyes were closed and she was inhaling deeply.
    Billy walked forwards, drawn by the sight of her. He was only a few yards away when she opened her eyes and turned to face him. Her right eye was bruised and discoloured. She stared at him for a long moment, then invited him in with the smallest twitch of her head.
    He opened the summerhouse door and stepped inside. The air was stifling, thick with the sticky smell of skunk. He closed the door. She indicated the space on the sofa next to her. He sat down, unable to take his eyes off her.
    She held out the pipe and lighter. He took them, put the pipe in his mouth and lit it. A sweet burning in his throat and lungs, pressure and heat building as he held his breath. He exhaled. An immediate bolt to his brain made his eyes widen. He repeated the process, more ready for it this time, breathing out evenly. He handed