I don’t know, says Merriweather. What are you doing here, then?

Same as you. Shopping. Unlike Merriweather, he has no basket.

I see no shopping, says Merriweather.

Logan grabs two packets and holds them either side of his ears. What do you say? he asks. Teriyaki? Or Medium Egg?

Logan has never before played silly buggers in public. All his clowning has been saved for the bathroom mirror. Merriweather is thrown.

Depends what they’re for, he says. Look, Finlay, a lot has happened in the last couple of years, and—

To me too.

Obviously. Merriweather’s eyes alight on the pinstripe shirt which, looking down now, Logan can see is stained with the ketchup from yesterday’s hotdog. But whatever’s going on with you, I’d appreciate it if you’d leave me alone.

Why come and accost me, then? says Logan, replacing the noodles among the Italian wholewheat pastas and turning his body in a confrontational manner.

Accost you?

Yes. You didn’t need to speak to me. I was minding my own business.

Something comes over Merriweather in that moment. Logan sees it arrive on his face like the wake of a tanker. Merriweather steps forward, Logan steps backwards, and all at once they are doing a disconnected tango down the aisle, until Logan is backed into the bakery shelves.

I rather think you were minding mine, says Merriweather, grabbing a wrist and hooking it by its cuff onto a hook made for paper bags He grabs the other wrist, presses it against the other wooden upright. I don’t know what’s got into you, but I’m asking you to leave me alone. He looks around wildly; nothing to hook it upon. But as if summoned by the Old Testament God, an acned member of staff attempts to pass them with a pile of posters and a staple gun.

Excuse me, says Merriweather, snatching the gun and pressing it hard against Logan’s palm.

Do something! says Logan, and the youth does something. He runs back into the storeroom.

I should crucify you, says Merriweather, and Logan unwisely embraces the word should with relief, for when Merriweather sees it, he presses the trigger. Pain zings through Logan’s palm. The staple is too shallow to meet the wood, so Merriweather staples again, violently and repeatedly through the shirt-cuff. He leaves Logan hooked and nailed to the bread shelves, abandoning both weapon and basket of shopping at the till.

Did you kill Flora? Logan shouts after him. Did you kill Flora?

There is fuss made of him. The police are called. Two witnesses are kept from their offices for nearly an hour, but will face their bosses’ disapproval with tales of good citizenry and the delicious, repeatable tale of a man stapled to a rack of flatbreads. The police, when they arrive, take his answers with professional detachment. Yes, he knows the man. No, he does not want to press charges.