So Edmund drove, and he didn’t drink too much more at the Brickwork, and walking back to the car at thirteen minutes past one in the morning, Edmund assessed how drunk he was. He’d had three pints—including the two at The Hamlet—and three shots that Tim had practically forced down his throat. He was over the limit; there was zero doubt about that and even zero-er—was that a word?—chance that if he got caught, he wouldn’t get his license taken away from him, but he thought he could manage getting the five of them home. Putting on the blowers in the car and playing some loud music would do wonders. He wasn’t a big drinker usually, so he was feeling the effects a bit more than a heavy drinker would have. It was the shots that were getting to him. He was halfway drunk. Every time he turned his head, it took a few seconds for his eyes to catch up. But you didn’t really whirl your head round when you were driving, and Edmund was a damn good driver.

This would be his first real foray into the criminal circle. But then, if no one knew, then no one knew. Who was to say he was over the limit, when no one was around to clarify. Maybe he somehow wasn’t over the limit—there was no way he could know for sure. And it wasn’t as if there’d be any police around anyway. The stretch between Marsden and Huddersfield was practically a ghost town. Sections of it didn’t even have streetlights, for God’s sake, let alone cameras. They would be absolutely fine.

His skills whilst drunk—playing video games, anyway—were unparalleled. One time, the group had got themselves shitfaced and challenged each other to competitive Surgeon Simulator—basically a motion-controlled digital game of Operation. Edmund had won comfortably and he’d been way further gone than he was now. He got the ruptured spleen out and the funny bone without even breaking a sweat. Super chill-like! He was going to do it—had to, really. If he backed down the five of them would be stranded in Huddersfield, and Tim would never let him hear the end of it.

Edmund picked up the pace and caught up with the others. None of them would have any objection to Edmund driving. They were all too far along to voice any kind of issue. Tim had bought even more shots for them, as if he was at least trying to keep Edmund in an acceptable frame of mind.

Edmund thought that the flashing lights and the loud music had probably affected him more than the drink. He was brewing a hell of a migraine, and wanted to get home and to bed as quickly as possible. And the car was the best way to make that happen.