Fats laughed. The queue moved up nearer the high metal counter where the fish lay still sizzling under the lights.

‘Thought you’d have been in touch, you know, when I messaged.’

In his head, he said that he couldn’t, he’d told his dad, he had to give the phone back, here, have it now, but instead he just stared at the fish, the rows of drink cans piled on top of the counter, the tray of little wooden forks.

The woman in front went out of the shop.

‘Next?’

Brookie opened his mouth but he didn’t get a chance to speak because Fats had elbowed past him.

‘Large fish, large chips, peas, sausages, for . . . how many, kid?’ Brookie stared.

‘Jeez, and I thought you was a sharp lad . . . Four, is it? Five?’

‘Five.’ There were four but the word had slipped out.

‘For five. Do his, then us after.’

The woman gave him an odd look.

There were two plastic carrier bags full of hot-fat-smelling parcels, they were in his hands, and he was out and running again, no thanks, no anything, and it was only when he slowed at the crossroads that he panicked suddenly, because he had to have a story to tell the others and he couldn’t think of one. He’d found a tenner. The shop lady had given him them free. Yeah, right.

‘Fuck, Brookie, what you got there? How’d you pay for this lot? Fuck!’

‘There’s a man I know, he was in there, he got them for us.’

‘What man? There’s twenty quid’s worth in here! Who is he?’

‘Don’t know his name.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Frank.’ The name slipped out of his mouth too.

‘Frank what?’

‘Dunno. Come on, they’ll get cold, shall I get plates?’

‘Plates?’

He couldn’t sleep and the springs digging into his back were hot pokers. Then the phone screen lit up. Brookie grabbed it in case it beeped and woke the others. It didn’t but the message still showed.

Enjoy your dinner?

He wouldn’t answer, though he knew he ought to. Fats had spent all that money.

Great thanks.

Good. Story?

What did that mean?

You still there?

Yes. But I have to go to sleep now.

Right. 4.10, Spinners Lane.

I can’t.

You’d better.

What’s it for?

Tell you then. 4.10.

I can’t.

You will.

The screen went dark.

He would. Fats scared him now, though he didn’t exactly know why, but he’d given him the bag, which wasn’t any big deal, and the phone, which was, and then forked out on the fish and chips for all four of them.

He had to.

Brookie switched the phone off, pushed it inside the split in his mattress and closed his eyes. Behind them, hundreds of golden fish swirled about, dancing in a sea of bubbling fat.

Eighteen