"How are your marks at school?" she had said, and Krystal had been evasive and defensive.

"Mr. Fairbrother said that he thought it broadened your horizons."

Krystal did not know what to say about horizons. When she thought of St. Thomas's, it was of her delight in the playing field with the big chestnut tree, which rained enormous glossy conkers on them every year; she had never seen conkers before she went to St. Thomas's. She had liked the uniform at first, liked looking the same as everybody else. She had been excited to see her great-grandfather's name on the war memorial in the middle of the Square: Pte. Samuel Weedon. Only one other boy had his surname on the war memorial, and that was a farmer's son, who had been able to drive a tractor at nine, and who had once brought a lamb into class for show and tell. Krystal had never forgotten the sensation of the lamb's fleece under her hand. When she told Nana Cath about it, Nana Cath had said that their family had been farm laborers once.

Krystal had loved the river, green and lush, where they had gone for nature walks. Best of all had been rounders and athletics. She was always first to be picked for any kind of sporting team, and she had delighted in the groan that went up from the other team whenever she was chosen. And she thought sometimes of the special teachers she had been given, especially Miss Jameson, who had been young and trendy, with long blond hair. Krystal had always imagined Anne-Marie to be a little bit like Miss Jameson.

Then there were snippets of information that Krystal had retained in vivid, accurate detail. Volcanoes: they were made by plates shifting in the ground; they had made model ones and filled them with bicarbonate of soda and washing-up liquid, and they had erupted onto plastic trays. Krystal had loved that. She knew about Vikings too: they had longships and horned helmets, though she had forgotten when they arrived in Britain, or why.

But other memories of St. Thomas's included the muttered comments made about her by little girls in her class, one or two of whom she had slapped. When Social Services had allowed her to go back to her mother, her uniform became so tight, short and grubby that letters were sent from school, and Nana Cath and Terri had a big row. The other girls at school had not wanted her in their groups, except for their rounders teams. She could still remember Lexie Mollison handing everyone in the class a little pink envelope containing a party invitation, and walking past Krystal with - as Krystal remembered it - her nose in the air.

Only a couple of people had asked her to parties. She wondered whether Fats or his mother remembered that she had once attended a birthday party at their house. The whole class had been invited, and Nana Cath had bought Krystal a party dress. So she knew that Fats' huge back garden had a pond and a swing and an apple tree. They had eaten jelly and had sack races. Tessa had told Krystal off because, trying desperately hard to win a plastic medal, she had pushed other children out of the way. One of them had had a nosebleed.

"You enjoyed St. Thomas's, though, did you?" the journalist had asked.

"Yeah," said Krystal, but she knew that she had not conveyed what Mr. Fairbrother had wanted her to convey, and wished he could have been there with her to help. "Yeah, I enjoyed it.") "How come they wanted to talk to you about the Fields?" asked Fats.

"It were Mr. Fairbrother's idea," said Krystal.

After another few minutes, Fats asked, "D'you smoke?"

"Wha', like spliffs? Yeah, I dunnit with Dane."

"I've got some on me," said Fats.

"Get it off Skye Kirby, didja?" asked Krystal. He wondered whether he imagined a trace of amusement in her voice; because Skye was the soft, safe option, the place the middle-class kids went. If so, Fats liked her authentic derision.

"Where d'you get yours, then?" he asked, interested now.

"I dunno, it were Dane's," she said.

"From Obbo?" suggested Fats.

"Tha' fuckin' tosser."

"What's wrong with him?"

But Krystal had no words for what was wrong with Obbo; and even if she had, she would not have wanted to talk about him. Obbo made her flesh crawl; sometimes he came round and shot up with Terri; at other times he fucked her, and Krystal would meet him on the stairs, tugging up his filthy fly, smiling at her through his bottle-bottom glasses. Often Obbo had little jobs to offer Terri, like hiding the computers, or giving strangers a place to stay for a night, or agreeing to perform services of which Krystal did not know the nature, but which took her mother out of the house for hours.

Krystal had had a nightmare, not long ago, in which her mother had become stretched, spread and tied on a kind of frame; she was mostly a vast, gaping hole, like a giant, raw, plucked chicken; and in the dream, Obbo was walking in and out of this cavernous interior, and fiddling with things in there, while Terri's tiny head was frightened and grim. Krystal had woken up feeling sick and angry and disgusted.

"'E's a fucker," said Krystal.

"Is he a tall bloke with a shaved head and tattoos all up the back of his neck?" asked Fats, who had truanted for a second time that week, and sat on a wall for an hour in the Fields, watching. The bald man had interested him, fiddling around in the back of an old white van.

"Nah, tha's Pikey Pritchard," said Krystal, "if yeh saw him down Tarpen Road."

"What does he do?"

"I dunno," said Krystal. "Ask Dane, 'e's mates with Pikey's brother."

But she liked his genuine interest; he had never shown this much inclination to talk to her before.

"Pikey's on probation."

"What for?"

"He glassed a bloke down the Cross Keys."

"Why?"

"'Ow the fuck do I know? I weren't there," said Krystal.

She was happy, which always made her cocky. Setting aside her worry about Nana Cath (who was, after all, still alive, so might yet recover), it had been a good couple of weeks. Terri was adhering to the Bellchapel regime again, and Krystal was making sure that Robbie went to nursery. His bottom had mostly healed over. The social worker seemed as pleased as her sort ever did. Krystal had been to school every day too, though she had not attended either her Monday or her Wednesday morning guidance sessions with Tessa. She did not know why. Sometimes you got out of the habit.

She glanced sideways at Fats again. She had never once thought of fancying him; not until he had targeted her at the disco in the drama hall. Everyone knew Fats; some of his jokes were passed around like funny stuff that happened on the telly. (Krystal pretended to everyone that they had a television at home. She watched enough at friends' houses, and at Nana Cath's, to be able to bluff her way through. "Yeah, it were shit, weren't it?" "I know, I nearly pissed meself," she would say, when the others talked about programs they had seen.) Fats was imagining how it would feel to be glassed, how the jagged shard would slice through the tender flesh on his face; he could feel the searing nerves and the sting of the air against his ripped skin; the warm wetness as blood gushed. He felt a tickly oversensitivity in the skin around his mouth, as if it was already scarred.

"Is he still carrying a blade, Dane?" he asked.

"'Ow d'you know 'e's gotta blade?" demanded Krystal.

"He threatened Kevin Cooper with it."

"Oh, yeah," Krystal conceded. "Cooper's a twat, innee?"

"Yeah, he is," said Fats.

"Dane's on'y carryin' 'cos o' the Riordon brothers," said Krystal.

Fats liked the matter-of-factness of Krystal's tone; her acceptance of the need for a knife, because there was a grudge and a likelihood of violence. This was the raw reality of life; these were things that actually mattered...before Arf had arrived at the house that day, Cubby had been importuning Tessa to give him an opinion on whether his campaign leaflet should be printed on yellow or white paper...

"What about in there?" suggested Fats, after a while.

To their right was a long stone wall, its gates open to reveal a glimpse of green and stone.

"Yeah, all righ'," said Krystal. She had been in the cemetery once before, with Nikki and Leanne; they had sat on a grave and split a couple of cans, a little self-conscious about what they were doing, until a woman had shouted at them and called them names. Leanne had lobbed an empty can back at the woman as they left.

But it was too exposed, Fats thought, as he and Krystal walked up the broad concreted walkway between the graves: green and flat, the headstones offering virtually no cover. Then he saw barberry hedges along the wall on the far side. He cut a path right across the cemetery, and Krystal followed, hands in her pockets, as they picked their way between rectangular gravel beds, headstones cracked and illegible. It was a large cemetery, wide and well tended. Gradually they reached the newer graves of highly polished black marble with gold lettering, places where fresh flowers had been laid for the recently dead.

To Lyndsey Kyle, September 15 1960March 26 2008,

Sleep Tight Mum.

"Yeah, we'll be all right in there," said Fats, eyeing the dark gap between the prickly, yellow-flowered bushes and the cemetery wall.

They crawled into the damp shadows, onto the earth, their backs against the cold wall. The headstones marched away from them between the bushes' trunks, but there were no human forms among them. Fats skinned up expertly, hoping that Krystal was watching, and was impressed.

But she was gazing out under the canopy of glossy dark leaves, thinking about Anne-Marie, who (Aunt Cheryl had told her) had come to visit Nana Cath on Thursday. If only she had skipped school and gone at the same time, they could have met at last. She had fantasized, many times, about how she would meet Anne-Marie, and say to her, "I'm yer sister." Anne-Marie, in these fantasies, was always delighted, and they saw each other all the time after that, and eventually Anne-Marie suggested that Krystal move in. The imaginary Anne-Marie had a house like Nana Cath's, neat and clean, except that it was much more modern. Lately, in her fantasies, Krystal had added a sweet little pink baby in a frilly crib.

"There you go," said Fats, handing Krystal the joint. She inhaled, held the smoke in her lungs for a few seconds, and her expression softened into dreaminess as the cannabis worked its magic.

"You ain' got brothers an' sisters," she asked, "'ave yeh?"

"No," said Fats, checking his pocket for the condoms he had brought.

Krystal handed back the joint, her head swimming pleasantly. Fats took an enormous drag and blew smoke rings.

"I'm adopted," he said, after a while.

Krystal goggled at Fats.

"Are yeh adopted, are yeh?"

With the senses a little muffled and cushioned, confidences peeled easily away, everything became easy.

"My sister wuz adopted," said Krystal, marveling at the coincidence, delighted to talk about Anne-Marie.

"Yeah, I probably come from a family like yours," said Fats.

But Krystal was not listening; she wanted to talk.

"I gottan older sister an' an older brother, Liam, but they wuz taken away before I wuz born."

"Why?" asked Fats.

He was suddenly paying close attention.

"Me mum was with Ritchie Adams then," said Krystal. She took a deep drag on the joint and blew out the smoke in a long thin jet. "He's a proper psycho. He's doin' life. He killed a bloke. Proper violent to Mum an' the kids, an' then John an' Sue came an' took 'em, and the social got involved an' it ended up John an' Sue kept 'em."

She drew on the joint again, considering this period of her pre-life, which was doused in blood, fury and darkness. She had heard things about Ritchie Adams, mainly from her aunt Cheryl. He had stubbed out cigarettes on one-year-old Anne-Marie's arms, and kicked her until her ribs cracked. He had broken Terri's face; her left cheekbone was still receded, compared to the right. Terri's addiction had spiraled catastrophically. Aunt Cheryl was matter-of-fact about the decision to remove the two brutalized, neglected children from their parents.

"It 'ad to 'appen," said Cheryl.

John and Sue were distant, childless relatives. Krystal had never known where or how they fitted in her complex family tree, or how they had effected what, to hear Terri tell it, sounded like kidnap. After much wrangling with the authorities, they had been allowed to adopt the children. Terri, who had remained with Ritchie until his arrest, never saw Anne-Marie or Liam, for reasons Krystal did not entirely understand; the whole story was clotted and festering with hatred and unforgivable things said and threatened, restraining orders, lots more social workers.

"Who's your dad, then?" asked Fats.

"Banger," said Krystal. She struggled to recall his real name. "Barry," she muttered, though she had a suspicion that was not right. "Barry Coates. O'ny I uses me mum's name, Weedon."

The memory of the dead young man who had overdosed in Terri's bathroom floated back to her through the sweet, heavy smoke. She passed the joint back to Fats and leaned her head against the stone wall, looking up at the sliver of sky, mottled with dark leaves.

Fats was thinking about Ritchie Adams, who had killed a man, and considering the possibility that his own biological father was in prison somewhere too; tattooed, like Pikey, spare and muscled. He mentally compared Cubby with this strong, hard authentic man. Fats knew that he had been parted from his biological mother as a very small baby, because there were pictures of Tessa holding him, frail and birdlike, with a woolly white cap on his head. He had been premature. Tessa had told him a few things, though he had never asked. His real mother had been very young when she had him, he knew that. Perhaps she had been like Krystal; the school bike...

He was properly stoned now. He put his hand behind Krystal's neck and pulled her towards him, kissing her, sticking his tongue into her mouth. With his other hand, he groped for her breast. His brain was fuzzy and his limbs were heavy; even his sense of touch seemed affected. He fumbled a little to get his hand inside her T-shirt, to force it under her bra. Her mouth was hot and tasted of tobacco and dope; her lips were dry and chapped. His excitement was slightly blunted; he seemed to be receiving all sensory information through an invisible blanket. It took longer than the last time to pry her clothes loose from her body, and the condom was difficult, because his fingers had become stiff and slow; then he accidentally placed his elbow, with all his weight behind it, on her soft fleshy underarm and she shrieked in pain.

She was drier than before; he forced his way inside her, determined to accomplish what he had come for. Time was gluelike and slow, but he could hear his own rapid breathing, and it made him edgy, because he imagined someone else, crouching in the dark space with them, watching, panting in his ear. Krystal moaned a little. With her head thrown back, her nose became broad and snoutlike. He pushed up her T-shirt to look at the smooth white breasts, jiggling a little, beneath the loose constraint of the undone bra. He came without expecting it, and his own grunt of satisfaction seemed to belong to the crouching eavesdropper.

He rolled off her, peeled off the condom and threw it aside, then zipped himself up, feeling jittery, looking around to check that they were definitely alone. Krystal was dragging her pants up with one hand, pulling down her T-shirt with the other, reaching behind herself to do up her bra.

It had become cloudy and darker while they had sat behind the bushes. There was a distant buzzing in Fats' ears; he was very hungry; his brain was working slowly, while his ears were hypersensitive. The fear that they had been watched, perhaps over the top of the wall behind them, would not leave him. He wanted to go.

"Let's..." he muttered, and without waiting for her, he crawled out between the bushes and got to his feet, brushing himself down. There was an elderly couple a hundred yards away, crouching at a graveside. He wanted to get right away from phantom eyes that might, or might not, have watched him screw Krystal Weedon; but at the same time, the process of finding the right bus stop and getting on the bus to Pagford seemed almost unbearably onerous. He wished he could simply be transported, this instant, to his attic bedroom.

Krystal had staggered out behind him. She was pulling down the bottom of her T-shirt and staring down at the grassy ground at her feet.

"Fuck," she mumbled.

"What?" said Fats. "C'mon, let's go."

"'S Mr. Fairbrother," she said, without moving.

"What?"

She pointed at the mound in front of them. There was no headstone yet; but fresh flowers lay all along it.

"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. The Ghost of Barry Fairbrother...he was unnerved. It seemed like some kind of retribution.

"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...