‘About now.’

‘So?’

Marcus ignored him and started poking around the flat. Last time he’d only noticed that there was no Ned, and he’d missed a lot of things: the flash hi-fi, the hundreds of CDs and thousands of records and tapes, the black and white photos of people playing saxophones and the film posters on the wall, the wooden floors, the rug. It was small, which surprised Marcus. If Will earned what Marcus thought he earned, then he could afford something a lot bigger than this. It was cool, though. If Marcus had a flat of his own, he’d make it look just like this, although he’d probably choose different film posters. Will had posters of old films he’d never heard of—Double Indemnity, The Big Sleep. Marcus would have Honey, I Shrunk the Kids, definitely, and Free Willy and… he wouldn’t have Hellhound 3 or Boilerhead, though. Not now. The Dead Duck Day had really put him off things like that.

‘Nice flat.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Quite small, though.’

‘It’s big enough for me.’

‘But you could get something bigger if you wanted to.’

‘I’m happy with this one.’

‘You’ve got a lot of CDs. More than anyone I’ve met.’ Marcus went over to look at them, but he didn’t really know what he was looking for. ‘Iggy Pop,’ he said, and laughed at the funny name, but Will just looked at him.

‘Who are those people on the wall? The ones with the saxophones and the trumpets?’

‘Saxophonists and trumpeters.’

‘But who are they? And why are they on your wall?’

‘That’s Charlie Parker, and that’s Chet Baker. And they’re on my wall because I like their music and they’re cool.’

‘Why are they cool?’

Will sighed. ‘I don’t know. Because they took drugs and died, probably.’

Marcus looked at him to see if he was joking, but he didn’t seem to be. Marcus wouldn’t want pictures on his walls of people who took drugs and died. He’d want to forget all about that kind of thing, not look at it every day of his life.

‘Do you want anything? A cup of tea or a Coke or something?’

‘Yeah, OK.’

Marcus followed him into the kitchen. It wasn’t like their kitchen at home. It was much smaller and whiter, and it had loads more gadgets, all of which looked as though they had never been used. At home, they had a liquidizer and a microwave, both of which were covered in stains that had gradually become black.

‘What’s this?’

‘Espresso machine.’

‘And this?’

‘Ice-cream maker. What do you want?’

‘I’ll have some ice-cream, if you’re making it.’

‘I’m not. It takes hours.’

‘Might as well buy it from the shop, then.’

‘Coke?’

‘Yeah.’

Will handed him a can and he snapped it open.

‘Do you watch telly all day then?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘So what else do you do?’

‘Read. Shop. See friends.’

‘Nice life. Did you go to school when you were a kid?’

‘Yeah, course.’

‘Why? I mean, you didn’t really need to, did you?’

‘How d’you work that out? What do you think school’s for?’

‘Getting a job.’

‘What about reading and writing?’

‘I could do that years ago, and I’m still going to school. Because I’ve got to get a job. You could have left school when you were about six or seven. Saved yourself all the hassle. You don’t really need to do history to go shopping or read, do you?’

‘Depends if you want to read about history.’

‘Is that what you read about?’

‘Not often, no.’

‘OK, so why did you go to school?’

‘Shut up, Marcus.’

‘If I knew I wasn’t going to get a job, I wouldn’t bother.’

‘Don’t you like it?’ Will was making himself a cup of tea. When he’d put the milk in they went back into the living room and sat down on the sofa.

‘No. I hate it.’

‘Why?’

‘It doesn’t suit me. I’m not a school sort of person. I’m the wrong personality type.’ His mum had told him about personality types a while ago, just after they had moved. They were both introverts, she said, which made a lot of things—making new friends, starting at new schools and new places of work—more difficult for them. She’d said it as if it would make him feel better, but of course it hadn’t helped at all, and he couldn’t understand how on earth she thought it might: as far as he could see, being an introvert just meant that it wasn’t even worth trying.

‘Do people give you a hard time?’

Marcus looked at him. How did he know that? Things must be worse than he thought, if people knew even before he had said anything.

‘Not really. Just a couple of kids.’

‘What do they give you a hard time about?’

‘Nothing really. Just, you know, my hair and glasses. And singing and stuff.’

‘What about singing?’

‘Oh, just… sometimes I sing without noticing.’

Will laughed.

‘It’s not funny.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I can’t help it.’

‘You could do something about the hair.’

‘Like what?’

‘Get it cut.’

‘Like who?’

‘Like who! Like how you want it.’

‘This is how I want it.’

‘You’ll have to put up with the other kids, then. Why do you want your hair like that?’

‘ ‘Cos that’s how it grows, and I hate going to the hairdresser.’

‘I can see that. How often do you go?’

‘Never. My mum cuts it.’

‘Your mum? Jesus. How old are you? Twelve? I would have thought you’re old enough to get your own hair cut.’

Marcus was interested in that ‘old enough’. It wasn’t something he was told very often. ‘D’you think?’

‘Course. Twelve? You could get married in four years’ time. Are you going to get your mum to cut your hair then?’

Marcus didn’t think he’d be getting married in four years’ time, but he could see what Will was telling him.

‘She wouldn’t like it, would she?’ he said.

‘Who?’

‘My wife. If I had a wife, but I don’t think I will. Not in four years.’

‘I wasn’t really thinking of that. I was thinking that you might feel a bit of a wally if your mum had to come round and do everything like that. Cut your hair and cut your toenails and scrub your back—’

‘Oh, right. Yeah, I see what you mean.’

And yes, he saw what Will meant, and yes, Will was right. In those circumstances he would feel like a wally. But there was another way of looking at it: if his mum was coming round in four years’ time to cut his hair, then that would mean nothing terrible had happened in the meantime. The way he was feeling at the moment, he’d settle for looking like a bit of a wally once every couple of months.

Marcus visited Will a lot that autumn, and by about the third or fourth time he felt that Will was getting used to him. They had a bit of an argument the second time—Will didn’t want to let him in again, and Marcus had to insist, but eventually they reached a stage where Marcus would ring the bell and Will would open the door without even bothering to check who it was; he’d just wander back in to the living room and expect Marcus to follow him. A couple of times he was out, but Marcus didn’t know whether he went out deliberately, and he didn’t want to know, either, so he didn’t ask him.

They didn’t talk about much at first, but eventually, when the visits became routine, Will seemed to think they should have proper conversations. He wasn’t very good at them, though. The first time it happened they were talking about this fat bloke who kept winning on Countdown, when Will said, ‘How’s it going at home?’, for no reason at all that Marcus could see.

‘You mean my mum?’

‘I suppose.’

It was so obvious that Will would rather talk about the fat bloke on Countdown than about what had happened before that for a moment Marcus felt a little stab of temper because he didn’t have the same kind of choice. If it was up to him he’d spend all his time thinking about the fat bloke on Countdown, but he couldn’t because there were too many other things to think about. He wasn’t annoyed for long, though. It wasn’t Will’s fault and at least he was trying, even though it was difficult for him.