'If anyone's sold you this fossil as anything but a trilobite, sue 'em. Your dad and I know a good lawyer, eh, Mike? Well. Must clock up another mile or two before breakfast. Then it's back to Poole. See if my family have sunk my yacht yet.'

'Wow, have you got a yacht, Mr Salt?'

Craig Salt'd scented my sarcasm but couldn't act on it.

I stared back, innocent, defiant and surprised at myself.

'Only a forty-footer!' Dad said it like the man-of-the-sea he isn't. 'Craig, the trainees were saying what a pleasure it was yesterday to-'

'Ah, yes, Mike. Knew there was something else. Would've been unprofessional of me to bring it up in front of the Great White Hopes at the hotel, Mike, but we need to talk urgently about Gloucester. Last quarter's accounts are making me mucho depressedo. Swindon's going straight down the bloody toilet as far as I can see.'

'Absolutely, Craig. I've got some new concepts for in-store promotions we can kick about in the long grass and-'

'It's arse-kicking we need, not grass-kicking. Expect a call from me on Wednesday.'

'Looking forward to it, Craig. I'll be in the Oxford office.'

'I know where all my area managers are. Be more careful, Jason, or you'll cause someone an injury. Yourself, perhaps. Until Wednesday, Mike.'

Dad and I watched Craig Salt jog down the promenade.

'What say,' Dad's jolliness was forced and feeble, 'we get ourselves that bacon sandwich?'

But I couldn't speak to Dad.

'Hungry?' Dad put his hand on my shoulder. 'Jason?'

I nearly biffed his hand away and flung my shitty 'trilobite' into the shitty sea.

Nearly.'So while I'm neck-deep in shipping notices, stock inventories, mailing lists and artistic temperaments,' Mum adjusted the mirror to perfect her lipstick, 'you get to swan around Cheltenham all morning like Lord Muck! All right for some, eh?'

'I guess so.'

Mum's Datsun Cherry smells of Mint Imperials.

'Ah, you'll have a whale of a time! Now, Agnes says Chariots of Fire starts at twenty-five to two, so grab yourself a sausage roll or something for lunch, and get back to the gallery by...' Mum checked her watch. '...a quarter past one.'

'Okay.'

We got out of the Datsun. 'Morning, Helena!' A crew-cut man marched by to where a van was docking into a delivery bay. 'Proper scorcher we're in for, today's forecast says.'

'About time we had a bit of summer. Alan, this is my son, Jason.'

I got a crooked grin and a jokey salute. Dad wouldn't like Alan.

'Being as you're sort of on holiday, Jason, why don't I...' From her purse Mum unfolded a crisp five-pound note.

'Thanks!' I don't know why they're being so generous at the moment. 'That's as much as Dad gave me in Lyme Regis!'

'Silly me I meant to give you a ten...'

Back went the fiver and out came a tenner! That made 28.70.

'Thanks very much.'

I'd need every last penny.

'Antique shops?' The woman in Tourist Information began memorizing my features in case a robbery was reported later. 'Why do you want antique shops? The best bargains are in the charity shops.'

'It's my mum's birthday,' I lied. 'She likes vases.'

'Oh. For Mum? Oh! Isn't Mum lucky having you as a son?'

'Uh...' She made me nervous. '...thanks.'

'Lucky, lucky Mum! I have a son as lovely as you, too.' She flashed me a photo of a fat baby. 'Twenty-six years ago, this, but he's still as adorable! Pips doesn't always remember my birthday, mind, but he's got a heart of gold. That's what counts, at the end of the day. Father was a waste of space, sorry to say. Pips hated the pig as much as I did. The men' (she made a just-swallowed-bleach face) 'just fire out their snot, roll over and that's it, goodnight. The men don't grow sons, feed them with their own milk, wipe their botties, powder their,' she cooed at me but the bird of prey was back in her eyes, 'little snails. A father will always turn on his son in the end. Only room for one cock-of-the-walk in any farmyard, thank you very much. But I showed Pippin's father the door when Pips turned ten. Yvette was fifteen. Yvette says Pippin's old enough to be living on his own, now, but that miss has forgotten who's the mother and who's the daughter since she got a pay-in-instalments wedding ring on her finger. Yvette forgets it's thanks to me that that little Jezebel from Colwall didn't get her sharp little claws into Pippin. Seduce him into some entanglement. Yvette's still thick as thieves with that' the foamy lady nodded at the empty doorway 'clot. Her father. The pig. The dolt. Who else put the idea into her head? Poking her pointy beak into where Pips keeps our little pick-me-ups? A mother needs a little pick-me-up occasionally, my pet. God made us mothers but He didn't make it easy for us to stay on top of things. Pips understands. Pips says, "Let's call these pills yours, Mum. They're our secret, but say, if anyone asks, they're yours." Pippin's not so nicely spoken as you, my pet, but his heart's twenty-four-carat. But do you know what Yvette did to our pick-me-ups? Turned up uninvited one afternoon and without so much as a by your leave, she flushed them down the lavvy! My, Pippin turned the air blue when he got home and found out! Hit the roof! It was "my effing stock" this, "my effing stock" that! Never seen the boy in such a state! Went round to Yvette's and, well, did he put her pointy beak out of joint!' Her face clouded. 'Yvette called the coppers. Shopped her own brother! He'd only biffed that froglet of a husband of hers a little bit! But Pips just disappeared after that. Days on end now, neither hide nor hair. All I want is a phone call from my son, my pet. Just to tell me he's looking after himself proper. Some nasty types keep knocking our door down. The police are just as bad. "Where's the effing gear this? Where's the effing money that? Where's your son gone you effing old bitch?" Oh, filthy language, they've got. But even if I had heard from Pips, I'd rather die than breathe a word...'

I opened my mouth to remind her about the antique shops.

She shuddered out a sigh. 'I'd rather die...'

'So, uh, could you give me a map of Cheltenham with the antique shops marked on it?'

'No, pet. I don't work here. Ask that lady behind the desk.'

The first antique shop was called George Pines, out on a ring road, wedged between a betting shop and an off-licence. Cheltenham's s'posed to be posh but posh towns've got dodgy areas too. You cross a boomy rusting footbridge to get there. George Pines wasn't what you have in mind when you think 'antique shop'. The doors and windows had grilles. A note was Sellotaped to the (locked) door saying, BACK IN 15 MINS BACK IN 15 MINS but the ink'd gone ghostly and the paper'd faded. A notice said, but the ink'd gone ghostly and the paper'd faded. A notice said, BEST RATES FOR HOUSE CLEARANCES. BEST RATES FOR HOUSE CLEARANCES. Through the grimy window it was all ugly big sideboards you get in grandparents' bungalows. No clocks, no watches. Through the grimy window it was all ugly big sideboards you get in grandparents' bungalows. No clocks, no watches.

George Pines was long gone.

As I was walking back over the footbridge these two kids came towards me. They looked my own age but they'd got red-laced Docs. One wore a Quadrophenia T-shirt, the other an RAF T-shirt. Their footsteps boomed in time, left-right left-right. If you look kids in the eye it means you reckon you're as hard as they are. I was carrying a fortune in cash so I kept my eyes sideways and down, on the fumey river of loud trucks and slow tankers flowing underneath us. But as the two Mods approached, I knew they wouldn't go into single file to let me by. So I had to squeeze myself against the sun-hot railing.

'Got a light?' grunted the taller one at me.

I swallowed. 'Me?'

'Nah, I'm talkin' to Princess fuckin' Diana.'

'No.' I gripped the rail tight. 'Sorry.'

The other Mod grunted, 'Poof.'

After the nuclear war, kids like them'll rule what's left. It'll be hell.

Most of the morning'd gone before I found the second antique shop. An arch led into a cobbled square called Hythloday Mews. Wails of far-off babies spiralled round Hythloday Mews. Lacy curtains blew over window boxes. A sleek black Porsche lay waiting for its master. Sunflowers watched me from their warm wall. Here was the sign, HOUSE OF GILES. HOUSE OF GILES. The dazzling outside hid the inside. The door was propped open by a droopy pygmy with a sign round his neck saying, The dazzling outside hid the inside. The door was propped open by a droopy pygmy with a sign round his neck saying, YES, WE'RE OPEN! YES, WE'RE OPEN! Inside smelt of brown paper and wax. Cool as stones in streams. Murky cabinets of medals, of glasses, of swords. A Welsh dresser bigger than my bedroom hid the deepest quarter from sight. From here, a scratchy noise started up. The noise unfogged itself into radio cricket. Inside smelt of brown paper and wax. Cool as stones in streams. Murky cabinets of medals, of glasses, of swords. A Welsh dresser bigger than my bedroom hid the deepest quarter from sight. From here, a scratchy noise started up. The noise unfogged itself into radio cricket.

The noise of a knife on a chopping board.

I peered round the dresser.

'If I'd known I'd end up with this mess,' the dark American woman purred at me, 'I'd have gotten the freakin' cherries.' (She was sort of beautiful but too off another planet to be fanciable.) In her sticky hands dripped a greeny-red fruit the shape of a strange egg. 'Cherries are the fruit. Pop 'em in, slide out the stone, masticate, swallow, finito. None of this...spatter and gore.'

My first words to a real live American were, 'What fruit's that?'

'Know what a mango is?'

'No, sorry.'

'Why apologize? You're English! You don't know real food from freakin' polystyrene. Try some?'

You can't take sweets from pervy men in parks, but exotic fruit from antique shopkeepers is probably okay. 'Okay.'

The woman shaved off a fat sliver into a glass bowl. She stuck a tiny silver fork into it. 'Rest your feet a moment.'

I sat on a wicker stool and lifted the bowl to my mouth.

The slippery fruit slid on to my tongue.

God, mango's gorgeous...perfumed peaches, bruised roses.

'So what's the verdict?'

'It's absolutely-'

The cricket commentary suddenly went crazy. '-entire audience here at the Oval is on its feet, as Botham notches up another superb century! Geoffrey Boycott is running over to congratulate-'

'Botham?' The woman went to red alert. 'That's Ian Botham, right?'

I nodded.

'Shaggy like Chewbacca? Broken Roman nose? Barbarian eyes? Masculinity wrapped in cricket whites?'

'That's probably him.'

'Oh.' She crossed her hands over her bosomless chest like the Virgin Mary. 'I would walk on burning embers.' We listened to more radio applause as we finished the mango. 'So.' She carefully wiped her fingers on a damp flannel and switched the radio off. 'Can I sell you a Jacobean four-poster bed? Or do the tax inspectors keep getting younger?'

'Uh...have you got an Omega Seamaster please?'

'An "Ohmeega Seamaster"? That's a boat?'

'No, it's a watch. They stopped making them in 1958. It has to be a model called a "de Ville".'

'Alas, Giles doesn't do watches, honey. He doesn't want people bringing them back if they don't run.'

'Oh.' That was it. Nowhere else in Cheltenham.

The American woman studied me. 'I may know a specialist dealer...'

'A watch dealer? Here in Cheltenham?'

'No, he operates out of South Kensington. Want me to call him?'

'Would you? I've got 28.75.'

'Keep your cards closer to your chest than that, honey. Let me see if I can find his number in this bordello Giles calls his office...'

'Hi, Jock? Rosamund. Uh-huh. No...no, I'm playing shop. Giles is out vulturing somewhere. Some duchess with a big country house has died. Or a countess. Or a largesse. I don't know, we don't do queens where I come from, Jock, well, not queens who dress like they're serving life in fashion prison...What's that? Oh, Giles did tell me, it was someplace quaint, in the Cotswolds, English-sounding...Brideshead no, that was the TV series, right? It's on the tip of my tongue Codpiece-under-Water...No, Jock, I'd tell you if...What's that?...Uh-huh, I know there are no secrets between...Uh-huh, Giles loves you like a brother, too. But listen up, Jock. I have a young man here in the shop...Oh, hilarious, Jock, no wonder you're such a pin-up with the London arthritic...This young man is after an Ohmeega Seamaster' (she checked with me and I mouthed 'de Ville' at her) '"de Ville"...Uh-huh. You're familiar with that model?'

The pause was somehow promising.

'Oh, you are?'

The moment before you win you know you've won.

'In front of you? Well, how fortunate I called! Uh-huh...Mint condition? Oh, Jock, this is getting better...so serendipitous...Listen, Jock, about the shekels...we have a budgetary situation here that...Uh-huh...Yes, Jock, if they stopped making them in the fifties they must be hard to come by, I see that...I know you're not a registered charity...' (She mimed me a yapping yapbird with her hand.) 'If you didn't breed like a buck-rabbit with every she-bunny who raises her fluffy tail your way, Jock, you wouldn't have so many children on the brink of starvation. Just give me your best price?...Uh-huh...Well, I think it might...Uh-huh. If he does, I'll call you back.'

The phone pinged in its cradle.

'He had one? An Omega Seamaster?'

'Uh-huh.' Rosamund looked sorry. 'If you can stretch to 850, he'll courier it to your house once your cheque has cleared.'

Eight hundred and fifty pounds?

'More mango, honey?'

'So let me get this straight, Jason. You broke this freakin' watch of your grandfather's quite by accident in January?' (I nodded.) 'And you've spent the last eight months scurrying around for a replacement?' (I nodded.) 'On the resources of a thirteen-year-old?' (I nodded.) 'By bicycle?' (I nodded.) 'Wouldn't it be a whole load easier just to confess? Take your punishment like a man, then get on with your life?'

'My parents'd murder me. Literally.'

'What's that? They'd murder you? Literally?' Rosamund sealed in a mock scream with her hands. 'Kill their own offspring? For breaking a freakin' watch? How did they dispose of your siblings when they broke things? Flush them down the john, joint by joint? Doesn't the plumber find their bones when he unblocks the pipes?'

'Okay, not literally murder me, but they'd go mental. It's like...my greatest fear.'

'Uh-huh. And how long will they stay "mental"? The term of your natural life? Twenty years? No possibility of parole?'

'Not that long, obviously, but-'

'Uh-huh. Eight months?'

'Several days, definitely.'

'What's that? Several days? Holy shit, Jason.'

'More than that. A week, most like. And they'd never let me forget it.'

'Uh-huh. And how many weeks can you expect to remain in your mortal coil?'

'I'm-' (Hangman blocked my 'sorry?') 'I don't quite get you.'