‘I hate football.’

‘Right. What a shame.’

‘Why?’

Will ignored him.

‘Who are your favourite singers then?’

Marcus snorted. ‘Are you getting these questions out of a book?’

Suzie laughed. Will blushed.

‘No, I was just interested.’

‘OK. My favourite singer is Joni Mitchell.’

‘Joni Mitchell? Don’t you like MC Hammer? Or Snoop Doggy Dogg? Or Paul Weller?’

‘No, don’t like any of them.’ Marcus looked Will up and down, taking in the trainers, the haircut and the sunglasses, and added cruelly, ‘Nobody does. Only old people.’

‘What, everyone in your school listens to Joni Mitchell?’

‘Most people.’

Will knew about hip-hop and acid house and grunge and Madchester and indie; he read Time Out and iD and the Face and Arena and the NME, still. But nobody had ever mentioned anything about a Joni Mitchell revival. He felt dispirited.

Marcus went on ahead, and Will made no move to keep up with him. At least his failure gave him a chance to talk to Suzie.

‘Do you have to look after him often?’

‘Not as often as I’d like, eh, Marcus?’

‘What?’ Marcus stopped and waited for them to catch up.

‘I said, I don’t look after you as often as I’d like.’

‘Oh.’

He walked on ahead again, but not as far as before, so Will was unsure about how much he could hear.

‘What’s up with his mum?’ Will asked Suzie quietly.

‘She’s just a bit… I don’t know. Under the weather.’

‘She’s going nuts,’ said Marcus matter-of-factly. ‘Cries all the time. Doesn’t go to work.’

‘Oh, come on, Marcus. She’s just had a couple of afternoons off. We all do that when we’re, you know, off colour.’

‘Off colour? Is that what you call it?’ said Marcus. ‘I call it nuts.’ Will had only previously heard that note of amused belligerence in the voices of old people who were trying to tell you things were much worse than you wanted to pretend: his father had been like that in the last few years of his life.

‘Well, she doesn’t seem nuts to me.’

‘That’s because you don’t see her very often.’

‘I see her as often as I can.’

Will noted the tetchy defensiveness in her voice. What was it with this kid? Once he had seen where you were vulnerable, he was merciless.

‘Maybe.’

‘Maybe? What does "maybe" mean?’

Marcus shrugged. ‘Anyway, she’s not nuts with you. She’s only nuts at home, when it’s the two of us.’

‘She’ll be fine,’ said Suzie. ‘She just needs a weekend taking it easy. We’ll have a nice picnic, and when you get back tonight she’ll be rested up and ready to go.’

Marcus snorted and ran on. They were in the park now, and they could see the SPAT crowd over by the lake in front of them, filling juice containers and unwrapping silver-foil packages.

‘I see her at least once a week,’ said Suzie. ‘And I phone as well. Does he really expect more than that? It’s not as if I’m messing around all day. I study. I’ve got Megan. Jesus.’

‘I don’t believe all these kids are listening to Joni Mitchell,’ said Will. ‘I would have read about it. I’m not that out of touch.’

‘I suppose I’m going to have to ring every day,’ said Suzie.

‘I’m giving up those magazines. They’re useless,’ said Will.

They trudged towards the picnic, feeling old and beaten and found out.

Will felt that his apologies and explanations for Ned’s absence were taken at face value by the SPAT picnickers, although there was, he knew, absolutely no reason why they should not have been. Nobody was so desperate for an egg-and-cress sandwich and a game of rounders that they would go to all the trouble of inventing a child. But he still felt a little uncomfortable, and as a consequence threw himself into the afternoon with an enthusiasm that he was only usually able to muster with chemical or alcoholic assistance. He played ball, he blew bubbles, he burst crisp packets (a mistake—many tears, lots of irritated glances), he hid, he sought, he tickled, he dangled… He did more or less anything that would keep him away from the knot of adults sitting on blankets under a tree, and away from Marcus, who was wandering around the boating lake throwing pieces of leftover sandwich at the ducks.

He didn’t mind. He was better at hiding and seeking than he was at talking, and there were worse ways to spend an afternoon than making small children happy. After a while Suzie and Megan, asleep in her buggy, came over to join him.

‘You miss him, don’t you?’

‘Who?’

He meant it; he had no idea what she was talking about. But Suzie smiled knowingly, and so Will, on the case again, smiled back.

‘I’ll see him later. It’s no big deal. He would have enjoyed it here, though.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘Oh… Nice. He’s a really nice boy.’

‘I can imagine. Who does he look like?’

‘Ummm… Me, I guess. He drew the short straw.’

‘Oh, he could have done worse. Anyway, Megan looks just like Dan, and I hate it.’

Will looked at the sleeping child. ‘She’s beautiful.’

‘Yeah. That’s why I hate it. When I see her like this, I think, what a gorgeous baby, and then I think, you bastard, and then I think… I don’t know what I think. I get into a mess. You know, she’s a bastard, he’s gorgeous… You end up hating your own child and loving the man who dumped her.’

‘Oh, well,’ said Will. He was beginning to feel cheap and churned up. If the conversation was taking a mournful turn, it was time to make a move. ‘You’ll meet someone else.’

‘D’you reckon?’

‘Well. There’ll be lots of men… I mean, you know, you’re a very… You know. I mean, you’ve met me, and I know I don’t count, but… You know, there are plenty…’ He trailed off hopefully. If she didn’t bite, forget it.

‘Why don’t you count?’

Bingo.

‘Because… I don’t know…’

Suddenly Marcus was in front of them, hopping from foot to foot as if he were about to wet himself.

‘I think I’ve killed a duck,’ he said.

Marcus couldn’t believe it. Dead. A dead duck. OK, he’d been trying to hit it on the head with a piece of sandwich, but he tried to do all sorts of things, and none of them had ever happened before. He’d tried to get the highest score on the Stargazer machine in the kebab shop on Hornsey Road—nothing. He’d tried to read Nicky’s thoughts by staring at the back of his head every maths lesson for a week—nothing. It really annoyed him that the only thing he’d ever achieved through trying was something he hadn’t really wanted to do that much in the first place. And anyway, since when did hitting a bird with a sandwich ever kill it? Kids must spend half their lives throwing things at the ducks in Regent’s Park. How come he managed to pick a duck that pathetic? There must have been something wrong with it. It was probably just about to die from a heart attack or something; it was just a coincidence. But if it was, nobody would believe him. If there were any witnesses, they’d only have seen the bread hit the duck right on the back of the head, and then seen it keel over. They’d put two and two together and make five, and he’d be imprisoned for a crime he never committed.

Will, Suzie, Megan and Marcus stood on the path at the edge of the lake, staring at the dead body floating in the water.

‘There’s nothing we can do about it now,’ said Will, the trendy bloke who was trying to get off with Suzie. ‘Just leave it. What’s the problem?’

‘Well… Supposing someone saw me?’

‘D’you think anyone did?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe they said they were going to tell the park-keeper.’

‘Maybe someone saw you, or definitely? Maybe they said they were going to get the park-keeper, or definitely?’ Marcus didn’t like this bloke, so he didn’t answer him.

‘What’s that floating next to it?’ Will asked. ‘Is that the bread you threw at it?’