‘See?’ she said, crouching over and indicating cards stapled to the cellophane. ‘Tha’ sez Fairbrother.’ She recognized the name easily from all those letters that had gone home from school, asking her mother to give permission for her to go away on the minibus. ‘“Ter Barry”,’ she read carefully, ‘an’ this sez, “Ter Dad”,’ she sounded out the words slowly, ‘“from… ”’
But Niamh and Siobhan’s names defeated her.
‘So?’ demanded Fats; but in truth, the news gave him the creeps. That wickerwork coffin lay feet below them, and inside it the short body and cheery face of Cubby’s dearest friend, so often seen in their house, rotting away in the earth.
‘C’mon,’ he said, but Krystal did not move. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I rowed for ’im, di’n I?’ snapped Krystal.
‘Oh, yeah.’
Fats was fidgeting like a restive horse, edging backwards.
Krystal stared down at the mound, hugging herself. She felt empty, sad and dirty. She wished they had not done it there, so close to Mr Fairbrother. She was cold. Unlike Fats, she had no jacket.
‘C’mon,’ said Fats again.
She followed him out of the cemetery, and they did not speak to each other once. Krystal was thinking about Mr Fairbrother. He had always called her ‘Krys’, which nobody else had ever done. She had liked being Krys. He had been a good laugh. She wanted to cry.
Fats was thinking about how he would be able to work this into a funny story for Andrew, about being stoned and fucking Krystal and getting paranoid and thinking they were being watched and crawling out almost onto old Barry Fairbrother’s grave. But it did not feel funny yet; not yet.
Duplicity
7.25 A resolution should not deal with more than one subject… Disregard of this rule usually leads to confused discussion and may lead to confused action…
‘…ran out of here, screaming blue murder, calling her a Paki bitch — and now the paper’s called for a comment, because she’s…’
Parminder heard the receptionist’s voice, barely louder than a whisper, as she passed the door of the staff meeting room, which was ajar. One swift light step, and Parminder had pulled it open to reveal one of the receptionists and the practice nurse in close proximity. Both jumped and spun round.
‘Doct’ Jawan—’
‘You understand the confidentiality agreement you signed when you took this job, don’t you, Karen?’
The receptionist looked aghast.
‘Yeah, I — I wasn’t — Laura already — I was coming to give you this note. The
‘And are those for me?’ asked Parminder coldly, pointing at the patient records in Karen’s hand.
‘Oh — yeah,’ said Karen, flustered. ‘He wanted to see Dr Crawford, but—’
‘You’d better get back to the front desk.’
Parminder took the patient records and strode back out to reception, fuming. Once there, and facing the patients, she realized that she did not know whom to call, and glanced down at the folder in her hand.
‘Mr — Mr Mollison.’
Howard heaved himself up, smiling, and walked towards her with his familiar rocking gait. Dislike rose like bile in Parminder’s throat. She turned and walked back to her surgery, Howard following her.
‘All well with Parminder?’ he asked, as he closed her door and settled himself, without invitation, on the patient’s chair.
It was his habitual greeting, but today it felt like a taunt.
‘What’s the problem?’ she asked brusquely.
‘Bit of an irritation,’ he said. ‘Just here. Need a cream, or something.’
He tugged his shirt out of his trousers and lifted it a few inches. Parminder saw an angry red patch of skin at the edge of the fold where his stomach spilt out over his upper legs.
‘You’ll need to take your shirt off,’ she said.
‘It’s only here that’s itching.’
‘I need to see the whole area.’
He sighed and got to his feet. As he unbuttoned his shirt he said, ‘Did you get the agenda I sent through this morning?’
‘No, I haven’t checked emails today.’
This was a lie. Parminder had read his agenda and was furious about it, but this was not the moment to tell him so. She resented his trying to bring council business into her surgery, his way of reminding her that there was a place where she was his subordinate, even if here, in this room, she could order him to strip.
‘Could you, please — I need to look under…’
He hoisted the great apron of flesh upwards; the upper legs of his trousers were revealed, and finally the waistband. With his arms full of his own fat he smiled down at her. She drew her chair nearer, her head level with his belt.
