'No, why would I?'

'All right. Let me show you.'

He takes a puff of his cigar and I look up at him and watch.

'Got it?'

''Course I have.'

'That's right. You've got it now.'

He smiles, a big friendly smile, just as though we're best mates, as though he loves me.

'Yeah,' I say. 'Thanks.'

'Don't mention it.'

Since he's standing and I'm sitting, he's made me feel like an idiot and, at the same time, in spite of everything, I'm glad of his attention.

Bridget comes back with the whisky and pours us each a drink. As soon as she's sitting, Welkin turns his chair round to face her. He's as good as turned his back on me.

'You can't get much more civilised than this,' he says.

My cigar's gone out again and Welkin throws the box of matches at me. I miss. The box lands on the floor.

'I'm delirious and stupid with happiness,' he says. 'I haven't felt so good in a long time.'

He goes to the settee and sits beside Bridget.

'h.e.l.lo,' he says. 'Thought I'd pop over and offer you a shoulder rub.'

'There's no need,' she says.

'It's on the house,' he says. 'And I'm good at it.'

'Oh, all right,' she says. 'Why not?'

He takes the gla.s.s out of Bridget's hand, puts it on the floor. She turns round so her back's to him and he rubs her neck and shoulders, slow and gentle.

'Tell me if it's too hard.'

'No,' she says. 'That's nice.'

'I'm glad,' he says.

He slips his hands under her collar, starts on rubbing her back.

She laughs. 'That's probably enough,' she says. 'I think you're a little bit too merry.'

'I think so too,' I say.

She turns round to face me.

Welkin's got no choice but to stop.

He moves away from her, moves across on the settee.

Bridget clears her throat.

'So, Ian,' she says. 'Do you think you'll go back to work soon? Do you miss it?'

'In a while,' he says. 'I'm happy for now just taking a breath.'

'It's a long b.l.o.o.d.y breath,' I say.

'Well,' he says. 'I took a degree at Cambridge and got a first and then I worked for three years and I think I've probably earned all the breath I want.'

'No point working yourself to the bone if you don't have to,' says Bridget.

'That's my philosophy precisely,' says Welkin.

He moves in close again, puts his arm over her shoulder.

'Let's toast to the good life,' he says.

I stand.

'She doesn't want you sitting there with your hands all over her,' I say.

'It's okay, Patrick,' she says. 'He's not doing any harm.'

'Do you want him there?' I say.

Welkin kisses her on the cheek and she laughs, but I can see she's nervous. Her chest's going up and down too fast. 'I think you should leave it,' I say.

Welkin moves his arm round Bridget's neck so the tips of his fingers dangle like hungry worms near her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

'Just having a little bit of fun,' he says.

'I know,' she says.

He puts his hand on her leg. 'Leave her alone,' I say. 'Why don't you make me?' he says.

He says this so as it's not clear if he's serious or joking.

I take a step closer.

'Patrick,' says Bridget. 'It's fine.'

'Is it?'

'Ian's going back to his seat now.'

'You're a b.l.o.o.d.y spoilsport,' says Welkin.

He gets up and goes back to his seat.

When he's sat down, he flicks cigar ash into the ashtray. The ash misses and goes on the carpet. I'll sit, but I'll not stay for too much longer.

'Don't worry, Patrick,' says Bridget.

Welkin drags his armchair across so that it's closer to the settee and reaches for Bridget's hand.

'I'm sorry,' he says. 'I got a bit carried away.'

'Never mind,' she says.

She lets him hold her hand and he moves in closer. He's narrowed his eyes. He's about to kiss her and she'll probably let him.

She's not as smart as she lets on.

'Let's play a game of truth,' says Welkin. 'Just you and me.'

Bridget looks at me.

'Can three people play?' she says. 'What about Patrick?'

'It's time I heard the truth,' says Welkin. 'Tell me what you make of me.'

She looks at me, but she's right back in it. He's got her right back in.

'All right,' she says. 'Let's try it.'

'Tell me what kind of man I am,' says Welkin. 'I don't mind if you mention the good with the bad.'

I get up and throw the dead cigar in the fire.

I look at them both, but neither of them looks at me.

I open the door.

'f.u.c.k this,' I say.

13.

I go up to my room, open my window, take in a few gulps of clean air, sit a minute, get the cool night breeze on my face.

When I go to the bed, I know I won't sleep, not till they've gone separately to their rooms.

I don't want it, but I get to imagining them having s.e.x. Welkin's hands round Bridget's wrists, her chin crashing against his shoulder, Welkin grunting, Bridget crushed against the settee.

I get up and pace the room and my heart's pounding so hard the blood's beating in my teeth. To calm myself, I wash my face in cold water, drench my hair, wash my hands.

I listen out.

At last, Bridget's bedroom door opens and she goes in. She goes in alone.

Welkin comes up the stairs.

I stand near the wall and listen.

He changes, washes, gets into bed and then he's quiet.

I sit on the bed.

The only sound is of a few drunk lads out in the street, singing, one of them the leader, the other lads following.

I get down to the floor and do twenty push-ups and thirty sit-ups and, from the floor near my bed, I can see my toolkit's been moved, pushed too far back. It's not in the place I always leave it.

I pull it out from under the bed and check the contents and there's no doubt the tools have been tampered with.

Someone's been in here rummaging.

I take everything out to be sure, line the pieces up on the floor: SF and AF spanners, sealing pliers, grease gun and extension bars, the whole lot.

The ball peen hammer's gone.

I go to the desk and sit and think about what I've to do and it doesn't take me long to know.

I've got to go next door and wake him and ask why he's moved my toolbox and taken the hammer. He must've done it when he got back from St Anne's.

I'll not wait till morning to face him at breakfast with Bridget listening in and I'll not sit up the night without sleep and I'll not let him get away with it.

I go out to the hall and knock once on Welkin's door and say his name.

He doesn't answer.

I try the handle and go in.

The curtains are closed and the stuffy air stinks of his drunken skin. It's too dark for me to see what I need to see.