Her lips are big and red. She doesn't need make-up.

'Yeah?'

'Either a nervous person,' she says, 'or a domineering one that has to be in control all the time.'

'Neither of them sounds too good.'

She smiles. I wish she'd sit with me a minute.

'Breakfast will be about twenty minutes. Okay?'

'I'm happy with that. I'll read the paper.'

She goes to the door to get the papers that've been left out on the street.

I stand. 'No,' I say. 'I'll get them.'

She goes to the kitchen and I watch her walk and imagine we're lovers, that we've spent the night under covers together, that we've just woken and she's to cook my breakfast before I go to work. I imagine that I own my own garage and in a few weeks we're going on holiday to Spain and we're going to stay in a five-star hotel where we can have room service in the middle of the night and drink champagne in a big hot bath.

Once she's in the kitchen, and busy with the frying, I find a knife in a drawer near the till and get the bundle of newspapers from the street and cut them out of the plastic wrapping.

The headline says there's been a triple murder around the corner from my mother's house.

A man's killed his wife and two small kids and poured drain unblocker down their throats.

I can't get my head round what order he would have done it in. Did he knife them, then pour the drain unblocker down, or the other way round? And did he have to kill the mother first, or was it the mother having to watch him kill the kids first?

I can't turn the pages to get to the sports section, can't quit reading the story of the murder. I've read it a half-dozen times when Georgia comes back with my sausages and eggs.

'Here you are,' she says. 'The usual.'

I hold up the paper's headline for her to see.

CHILDREN TORTURED IN BRUTAL TRIPLE MURDER.

'This happened round the corner from my childhood home.'

I've not meant to say childhood home, makes it sound like I'm a bit sentimental about it.

'Really?'

'Just around the corner from the house where I grew up.'

She sits down next to me in the booth and we both face the door.

She reads the article.

'This happened near your family home?'

'Right round the corner.'

'Do you think you might know the people?'

I shouldn't have shown her the paper. I want to talk about our drive and picnic. I've gone and botched it good and proper. 'I'm not sure,' I say. 'There are no names.'

'But the description? Do you think you might know them?'

'My brother Russell might, or my mum.'

She reads the article again.

'It's a terrible thing,' I say. 'Why would he stick drain unblocker down their throats?'

'You should call your mum,' she says. 'You can use the phone out the back.'

I don't see the point. I can't change anything that's happened. I can't do any good.

'All right,' I say. 'Thanks.'

Georgia leads me out the back to a utility room that's full of mops and buckets, a stepladder, a small table, a locker, and a school desk piled with papers.

'Do I need a coin for this?'

I point to the old-fashioned black pay-phone on the wall.

'No, just dial.'

Georgia leaves.

I call and there's no answer. The sound of the ringing gets my heart racing.

I'm ready to hang up, but my father answers. He's always got to let the phone ring at least four times before he'll pick it up. Just like how he refuses to be a pa.s.senger in a car, always has to drive.

'h.e.l.lo? Jim Oxtoby speaking.'

'h.e.l.lo, Dad. It's me.'

'h.e.l.lo.'

I turn to face the wall.

'How is everybody?'

'We're fine, son. How are you getting on?'

'I'm fine.'

He says nothing more. He's bad on the phone, always has been, but he's not even asked me about my new digs, my job, the cars I've worked on.

'So everything's okay, then?' I say.

'Grand. Everything's grand.'

'Can you put Mum on?' I say.

He doesn't bother to say goodbye, just puts the phone down. He's come back.

'She's not here.'

'Right.'

'By all accounts you weren't exactly hospitable to her.'

My throat's got thick and I'm short of breath, but I've got to talk about what I said we'd talk about. Georgia might be listening.

'Isn't that murder round the corner a dreadful thing?' I say.

'What's that murder got to do with the price of fish and chips?'

'Is Mum all right over it?'

'You mean the murder?'

'Yeah. Who were they? The woman and kids killed?'

He takes a big deep breath, and I know he does it to stop his temper flaring, same as I do.

He speaks slowly. 'It were a young couple just moved up from Ess.e.x.'

'So n.o.body knows them?'

'I'm sure somebody does. But not us.'

'When will Mum be back?'

'I don't know, son. If I knew that, I'd have told you.' It's like he hates my guts and I've got the pain in my shoulders and my neck as bad as I've ever had it. 'Right,' I say.

I want to talk to my mum. I want to tell her I'm sorry.

'I need to hang up now,' he says. 'I've got to see a man about a dog.'

He hangs up, might as well have kicked me in the head.

'Bye then, Dad.'

I put the phone down. Georgia's come back and she stands in the doorway.

She comes to me, puts her hand on my arm.

'Patrick, you're sweating.'

She points to the front of my T-shirt.

'Oh.'

'Is everybody okay?'

'Yeah. The dead people were strangers. They'd just moved from Ess.e.x.'

'Do you want to sit down?'

We go back out to the cafe, to where we were sitting before. She gets me a gla.s.s of water and I drink it down fast.

'Do you want another?'

'No.'

She sits next to me.

There are no customers.

'I'll reheat your food in a minute,' she says.

'I'm not hungry.'

I turn round to face her.

'Thanks for letting me use the phone.'

'You're welcome,' she says.

We're silent for a moment, both watch the door.

'I was wondering about that drive,' I say.

'Oh?'

'Do you still want to go?'

She moves the menu across the table.

'Okay,' she says. 'But I'll have to ask Mich.e.l.le.'

'Good,' I say. 'I was hoping you'd say yes.'

I reach for her hand and hold it.

She takes her hand away, puts it in her ap.r.o.n pocket.