The community hall was even shabbier than Sean remembered it. The rain had come in through the roof and left a dark stain across the mural: Chasebridge Kids: Peace and Love! The result of a summer scheme a decade ago.

‘We can go near the door so I can get out for a fag,’ Jack said.

The hall filled up slowly. At the front, a man in a white T-shirt was adjusting the microphone. He bent down to check a cable. When he stood up, Sean could see it was the guy with the sharp blue eyes who’d put the leaflet through the door. Terry.

‘What were you saying yesterday? About his brother?’

‘Eh?’ Jack looked blank. ‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

Sean shuffled lower in his seat. The chairs began to fill and a tall man sat in front of him. It was enough to block his direct view of the stage, but that suited him fine. He looked around at who else was here. Rain had started tapping on the skylights in the roof. A couple of teenage girls ran in, shaking water from their hair and giggling. The next arrival was better prepared. He saw her from the back as she threw the butt of her cigarette outside the door. The smoke was still escaping through her lips as she came into the room, fingers struggling to un-knot the plastic rain hood protecting her neatly set hair. It was Nan. Sean dipped his head but not quick enough. She caught his eye and started towards them.

‘Now then, Jack Denton,’ she greeted Jack, who looked at her, confused, not recognising the mother-in-law he hadn’t spoken to for years. Sean stared at his feet and she hesitated, nodded at them both and veered off down the side aisle to find a seat nearer the front.

A man with a bald head and a thick neck, squeezed into a tight shirt collar, stood up at the front. He welcomed the residents of Chasebridge with a warning that these were dangerous times and it had never been more important for people to stand shoulder to shoulder. Communities of like-minded people were forged in times of adversity, he said, and this was one of those times.

‘The foreigners who claim to be part of our community have no respect, even as they’re making their money out of us.’

There was a murmur that sounded like a suppressed laugh.

‘There’s a shop on the corner there, and where you’re seeing ciggies, newspapers and birthday cards, I’m seeing something else. The younger generation are drawing undesirable elements into the area, folk who are causing trouble, bringing drugs onto this estate. Our parents stood by and let those people come in. Now the gates are open to all the Asians, Polish, Bulgarians and so-called asylum seekers. And what protection is there for our own youth? The police don’t care. Look, this campaign may have started with litter picking, but now we’ve got to get rid of the rest of the rubbish, so our own people can walk the streets without fear.’

A few people clapped and there was a cheer from the front row.

‘We’re organising a torchlit march next week, to reclaim our estate, to keep it safe.’

Applause broke out as Sean sank deeper into his seat.

‘Friends!’ The voice changed. It was Terry. ‘I’ve been away, but you’ve welcomed me home, like the prodigal son. But what do I find? I find my home has been spoilt and I want it back; I want it how it used to be. Is that too much to ask? I don’t want foreigners bringing their drugs round here. So, listen to me, if you want to keep your estate clean, you need to keep it English.’

More applause broke out at the front and a woman punched the air with a big bare arm. The rain started to knock harder against the skylights. Terry handed the microphone over to the man with the tight shirt collar. He was saying something about the torchlit parade, but it was no use, the rain was too loud. Talking was breaking out among the back rows and only the loyal supporters at the front were able to pick up their cue to clap and cheer at the right moments.

The rain turned to hail. Jack was twitching and Sean saw he was chuckling with laughter.

‘What is it?’ he mouthed.

Jack pressed his mouth to Sean’s ear. ‘I hope they get better weather. I’d like to see ’em try a torchlit march in this.’

‘I’m going, Dad. I’ve heard enough.’

He stood up but a hand grabbed his sleeve. Jack was pointing at the coat. His father was only wearing a thin shirt. The air had been warm when they’d left the flat. Sean quickly dropped the coat on the chair and pulled the brim of the baseball cap lower. He’d drawn more attention to himself than he’d wanted and it hadn’t been missed by the speaker.

‘This is not the time to leave! This is the time to stand with your own people!’ The voice from the front boomed above the rain.

Sean headed for the door and had his hand on the handle, when the drumming on the roof stopped as sharply as it had started. In the quiet that followed he sensed everyone staring at him.

‘Are you with us, or against us, lad?’ A voice from the front spoke calmly in the silence.

Sean didn’t look back. He pushed the door open and walked out into the clean, damp air. The ground shone with water and the sky ahead was brilliant blue. A rainbow arched over the four tower blocks. He could hear a muffled voice from the hall, rising to a crescendo, followed by a burst of applause. It grew louder for a moment before being muted again, as if the door had opened and closed behind him.

‘Now then,’ Terry was standing on the rough concrete ramp in front of the hall. It gave him a couple more inches of height over Sean. ‘Want a smoke?’

‘I’m OK.’

‘So you’re Jack’s lad.’

Sean nodded.

‘He’s been good to me,’ Terry said.

‘Really?’ Sean didn’t mean to sound surprised, but he hadn’t realised that being good to other people was in his dad’s repertoire.

‘That bother you, does it?’

‘No, no. It’s up to him.’

Sean mentally logged all the details in front of him: height, hair colour – a browny-red already peppered with grey – a spotless clean T-shirt, new-looking jeans pressed to a crease and an expensive pair of trainers. The ‘Made in England’ tattoo was rougher than the rest of his outfit, the sort of amateur job that might have been done in prison.

‘Terry … sorry, I didn’t catch your other name—’

‘And I didn’t catch yours, can’t call you young Denton, can I? So we’re both at a disadvantage with only half a name each.’

Terry smiled as he dragged on his cigarette and the light caught his eyes. Sean had an odd feeling, like he was being flirted with.

‘The name’s Sean,’ he said and wondered if he should offer a handshake, but he held back; there was too much energy around Terry that he didn’t like. Trust your instincts, Gav was always telling him.

‘Terry Starkey.’ Another long slow drag on his cigarette. ‘Good to meet you.’

‘Likewise.’

‘You don’t want to come back in?’ Terry flicked the spent butt onto the grass. ‘It’s a good bunch of lads. We look out for one another.’

‘I’m OK, thanks, I—’ Sean struggled to think of a reason apart from the obvious truth. ‘I don’t like so many people, crowds, you know, I get freaked out.’

‘I hear you, bro!’ Terry lurched forward and Sean winced as he gave him a manly clap on the shoulder. ‘Take care, I’ll see you around.’

Another chattering round of applause burst out of the opening door as Terry went back inside and Sean let out the breath he’d been holding. He pulled his phone out and scrolled through his contacts.

‘Gav? Is it too late to change my mind about that pint?’

CHAPTER NINE

Halsworth Grange

At nine-thirty on Monday morning, Chloe walks up the drive for her first day of work at Halsworth Grange. She feels sick. She thought it was the motion of the bus, but it’s still with her. Something moves on one of the chimneys of the house. She holds her breath, but it’s just a bird, taking off and circling above the trees. It’s a warm day, but dark grey clouds hang about to the east. They have a strange effect on the light, deepening the colours around her. She hurries on; Bill Coldacre is waiting for her in the potting shed.