Will glances quickly in her direction. The young woman doesn’t seem to him to be ‘being coy’ at all. Instead, she has the demeanour of someone who knows they’re being watched and is finding it thoroughly awkward.

‘Can we stop staring?’ Will says. ‘Fuck’s sake. It’s embarrassing.’

‘You old spoilsport,’ his dad says, turning back round. ‘Slip her your number,’ he tells Danny.

‘Oh, I’ll be slipping her something, don’t you worry.’

Their dad snorts as he sinks the last of his beer. ‘What happened to the girl you were seeing?’

‘Which one?’

‘That’s my boy! What was it, Amber?’

‘You mean April. Yeah, her.’

‘Sounds juicy.’

‘Think I’m a bit young for her, to be honest. Rumour has it she’s into the older man.’

‘Can you put in a word for me?’ They both roar with laughter.

‘She’d probably be up for that. Might need to grey your hair a bit, though.’

‘Where would we be without the dirty little slags?’ their dad says. ‘Like mopeds, aren’t they?’

‘How d’you mean?’

‘Fun to ride, as long as your mates don’t find out!’

It’s a strange feeling to Will, this ball of energy. It started in his guts, but now it’s reached his head and his fingers. And still the pressure builds, like Mentos in a Coke bottle, an aerosol in a bonfire. There’s wool in his hot ears. There’s distortion in his vision. Red mist, that’s what they call it, he fleetingly thinks. That’s what it is.

‘Cunts.’

The voice is barely recognizable as his own.

‘What’s that?’ his dad says with a perplexed smirk.

‘Fucking pair of cunts.’

The pub, quiet before, is silent now. The snap of a log in the grate is like a gunshot. His dad begins to speak. ‘Sorry, I don’t –’

‘Fuck you!’ Will screams the words. His arm sweeps across the table, launching his dad’s empty and his own nearly full glass like pinballs up the table. They explode as they hit the stone hearth. Beer quenches the fire in a cloud of sour steam.

‘Whoa, whoa, whoa!’ his dad says. There’s no trace of the smirk now. ‘What’s up with you, mate?’

‘I’m not your mate.’ Will’s face is so tight his jaw barely lets the words out.

Danny is shuffling back from the table. He’s not making eyes at the woman behind the bar any more. Nor is he looking at Will.

‘Please, mate?’ their dad says.

‘I don’t want a fucking mate!’ Will yells. ‘I want a dad. That’s what I want. Not a fucking mate! Can’t you understand that?’

‘What’s brought this on?’ He reaches towards Will.

‘Don’t fucking touch me!’ Will’s screamed words are like a hand snatched away from a hot pan: automatic, unthinking. ‘You’re a disgrace.’