They met at the park. They used to hang about at the bridge, leaning over the edge to flick fag butts into the river. When they were younger they’d lurked under the arches, but now they were twenty they smoked with a swagger, and shouted a little too loudly to each other, and didn’t care who saw it. Frank would meet them, shake hands ostentatiously and palm a nugget of dry resin. Then they’d walk on down to the shops and get a tenner out of the cash machine for him. Then they’d offer to roll one with him.

That day they walked on from the cash machine to the playpark. There was a sheltered bench there, and no kids went since the swings had been torched.

Ash was with Alice and her friends. They looked young, like they were still children, but not Ash. She was tall, and she had hoops in her ears, and her hair was piled high. Graeme watched her idly as they sat and waited for Darren to skin up. She saw what they were doing and came over. Graeme thought she was going to speak to him, but before she opened her mouth Frank said,

‘Fuck off, Ash.’

‘Why?’ she said.

Frank made a move, a sudden move as if to make her flinch, but she stood there impassively. The first truly beautiful person Graeme had ever seen. A Russian princess in a rusty playground.

In the dark, Graeme feels a sudden revulsion for himself. He’s fat, and old, and Caz beside him is just as fat.

The mattress heaves as Caz turns. He closes his eyes and wills himself to sleep.

Out in the car, Rose drives up the narrow road onto the moors.

‘Careful,’ says Graeme.

She keeps her eyes on the road. Where the incline rises sharply, she snatches at the gears, stalls, and slams on the brakes as she starts to drift back.

‘OK, OK,’ says Graeme.

Her eyes are wide. There is sweat on the side of her nose.

‘Hill start,’ he says. ‘You can do it.’

One hand on the brake, she eases off. The engine roars too loud, cuts.

‘OK, fine,’ he says. ‘You’re OK. Handbrake on.’

She pulls it up sharply.

‘Neutral. Now relax.’

She sits back.

‘OK?’ he asks.

She nods.

‘Shall we swap?’

She nods.

They cross at the bonnet. She’s wearing her halterneck. Her shoulders are like her mother’s.

‘OK,’ he says.

That night, Graeme heads down to the Coachman. He hasn’t been there in years. It’s exactly the same. The red and brown patterned velvet seats, the round bevelled tables, the Sky Sports on in the corner, and the deep, steady odour of stale beer and pre-smoking ban fags still leaching out of decades-old polyester fabric.

He can see Frank’s back as he hunches forward at the bar. He’s bald now, still broad-shouldered. He’s not fat, but the skin gathers in rolls at the nape of his neck.

Graeme turns and leaves.