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of Moira Farrell’s house in upper class suburbia, Shaun Busfield, twenty-four years old, pale and lanky with the look and demeanour of an agitated rodent, left the pub and made his way down the main road with jagged, stamping steps. The colours in the sky were lime and slate-grey, the pavements greasy black. Cars dazzled him with their piercing white headlights and rusty red tail lights. Outside the fish shop there was the smell of burning fat and a scattering of congealing chips which made his stomach heave. A sobbing girl broke away from her boyfriend and jumped on a waiting bus. The boyfriend sprang forward and banged on the closing door, ‘Ay! Michelle! Come back ’ere you dozy cow!’
    Muttering to himself Shaun turned into the estate. It had been built in the fifties on the edge of a wood. There wasn’t very much wood left now, just intersecting rows of ugly concrete-renderedsemis lining the broad streets. The houses near the main road had neat little gardens and bright windows with ornaments showing through the net curtains: a china dog, a vase with plastic flowers. As he went further into the maze of roads the windows of the houses were dark and stained with oily grime. Bare, feeble light bulbs hung from the ceilings. The low walls were cracked and crumbling and the gardens were full of junk and rubble and wire. What a hell hole.
    Shaun felt the bile rise up his gullet. He leaned over a wall and threw up the contents of the last four hours’ drinking and the meat pie that he had eaten at teatime. He trudged on, wiping the dribble from his lips. With the vomiting the alcohol seemed to have rushed out of his brain, its anesthetizing properties all deserting him.
    The memories came sliding back. He didn’t want to remember. And he didn’t want to think about his gran dying before he’d been able to tell her he was sorry for all the bad times, all the mean things he’d said and done. ‘Oh, Gran. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,’ he sobbed.
    He walked up the path to the back door. He’d had a go at knocking the two front windows into one big window. But somehow it hadn’t worked. He couldn’t get the surround right, and the white PVC frame was still perched inside chipped and crumbling brick, letting the wind sigh through.
    He could hear the TV blaring out in the living-room; some trashy late night film. Tina couldn’t get enough of them: love stories, thrillers, westerns. She’d watch any old rubbish they put on. ‘Ay, get a move on, I’m freezing out here,’ he shouted, staring moodily at the thin yellow curtains and trying to make out what was going on behind them. He banged on the glass with clenched knuckles, then pulled back; if he kept on going like this the whole blooming pane might fall out.
    The front door opened and Tina poked her head out and peered through the gloom. ‘Is that you, Shaun?’
    ‘Who do you bloody think it is?’ He stamped inside and followed her into the living-room. She was wearing a short pink dressing-gown and high-heeled navy court shoes with fluffyyellow socks underneath. There had been a time when the sight of all that would have charged him up with longing. But tonight, there was something about those socks that sent a wave of anger through him. He pushed it away; anger was dangerous – terrifying, if you let it loose.
    He threw himself on the green velvet settee which stood against the wall, an overflowing ashtray and several stained mugs balanced on one of its arms. ‘Make me a cup o’ tea,’ he told Tina.
    She pouted, hesitated, then clopped across to the sideboard and switched on the kettle which was sitting there.
    As Shaun stretched out the ashtray slid to the floor scattering stubs and ash. ‘Why don’t you ever clear up this rat-hole?’ he demanded of Tina.
    ‘Why don’t you ever finish doing up the kitchen?’ she snapped back, flinging a tea bag into a mug. ‘I hate living like this.’
    ‘Do you think I like it?’ he demanded, anger lapping