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the first batch of pigs was delivered the flurry of activity attracted old business associates of his father, the pretence of paying their respects a thin cloak for their curiosity. The animals’ squeals drowned out their rheumy-eyed reminiscences and he’d allowed them to drone on about how sorry they were about his parents. Some even bothered to be sorry about Mick, too. As he poleaxed pigs, as he disembowelled and dismembered, he wanted to tell them to save their breath, he wouldn’t do business with any of them: they were all too tainted by association with his father.
    With Hetty newly employed behind the shop counter, Patrick went to bed and slept for fifteen hours. He’d dreamt of Paul, bloodied and disfigured in Thompson’s arms.
    Patrick arranged bacon and scrambled egg on to plates. About to call Mick, he hesitated, thinking of Paul’s marriage announcement in the paper. The wedding was to take place on Christmas Eve, a week away. There was nothing to stop him going to the church. He would see him, even if only from a distance. Wondering why he hadn’t thought of it before, he smiled to himself. His appetite killed by excitement, he spooned more of the eggs on to Mick’s plate and called his brother to the table.
    â€˜I dreamt my legs grew back last night.’ Mick looked up from mopping bacon fat from his plate with a slice of bread. ‘I dreamt Mam was still alive and when I saw her I just got up and walked.’ As though he had just thought of it he said, ‘Let’s visit the grave tomorrow. Take some flowers.’
    â€˜If you want.’
    Patrick began to stack the plates as Mick lit a cigarette and deftly manoeuvred his chair away from the table and over to the fire. Reaching up to the mantelpiece he took down a book and began to read. He became absorbed almost at once, his expression becoming softer and losing the anger that so often animated his face. About to carry the plates through to the kitchen Patrick asked, ‘Can I get you anything?’
    Mick barely glanced at him. ‘Nothing, thank you.’
    â€˜Call me when you want to go to bed.’
    In the kitchen Patrick held a plate under the running tap, remembering Paul sleeping beneath a lilac tree. He remembered squatting beside him, watching as his chest rose and fell, fighting the urge to kiss his mouth, to run his hands beneath his shirt. He breathed the scent of white lilac blossom, heavy as gas on the warm air. Grass grew high, brushing pollen against his puttees and his cock’s aching hardness. He groaned.
    Paul woke, squinting against the sun. Drowsily he said, ‘Sergeant Morgan?’ His hand went to shade his eyes as he sat up. He frowned. ‘Morgan?’
    â€˜Captain Hawkins wants you, sir.’
    He knew he sounded sullen. His Thorp accent made even ordinary words sound like a threat. Paul had fallen back on to the grass, pushing his hand over his face as if to rub the sleep away. ‘I’ll be along in a moment, Sergeant.’
    Patrick hesitated, still squatting at his side. Paul had frowned up at him. ‘Was there something else?’
    Patrick loosened his grip on the still running tap. It had left a star shaped imprint on his palm and he pressed it hard against his erection. Thinking about Paul he could bring himself to climax in no time, come right here at the kitchen sink and swill the evidence straight down the drain. Remembering Mick in the next room he turned off the tap and began on the day’s dirty dishes.
    Hetty said, ‘What do you want for Christmas, Mam?’
    â€˜Peace and quiet.’
    â€˜What would you like really? I’ve seen a lovely scarf in Robinson’s.’
    Her mother grunted, ‘You keep your money.’
    Hetty fingered the ten-shilling note in her pocket. The scarf was thick and soft, a rich navy blue; it would go with her mother’s wardrobe of black; it wouldn’t upset her invented rules of mourning.