‘Yeah. No more,’ agreed Nula, lying back dishevelled, exhausted and cut to ribbons. She had more stitches up her fanny than a fucking tapestry. But she was happy and in a private hospital bed, not out on the main ward with the rest of the oiks. She looked around. Harlan was there, staring at her with that flat emotionless gaze of his. ‘You didn’t bring Milly.’

‘No, I left her with Jill, I didn’t want you getting overtired. You been through enough. You can get out of here and catch up with Milly then. Won’t be long. Or I can bring her in tonight, if you want.’

‘Yeah,’ said Nula. ‘That would be nice.’ Poor little Mills, she thought, watching Charlie – that arsehole – as he cuddled their son. Milly wasn’t going to get a look in, not now Charlie had his boy.

Charlie was so happy he felt he could burst with it. He couldn’t believe it. His own son. Milly was great, but she was a girl. It wasn’t the same. You couldn’t have girls involved in the business; it was too rough. Then he looked down and saw Harlan staring up at him with that cold questioning expression he always wore.

‘Look, Harlan. Your baby brother!’ he said, grinning. Well, sort of, thought Charlie. Not even a half-brother really, because Harlan wasn’t blood, not like this little fella.

He knew it was mean, what he was feeling. Wrong. But shit – would they even have bothered to adopt at all, if this tiny miracle had occurred before all that adoption bull crap happened?

Now Charlie was wondering vaguely how difficult it would be to give a kid to the care system. Bloody nigh impossible, he reckoned, given all the twists and turns he’d gone through with those official bastards. Or maybe he could palm Harlan off on one of the girls on the manor? Well, it was a fact that Harlan was a funny little fish, cold as a fucking haddock really. He’d never exactly warmed to the kid at all.

Yeah, because you thought that was it for you. No son, only this thing to fill in the gap. You’d accepted that.

Oh, he’d treated Harlan well enough. Bought him the best gifts at Christmas and on his birthdays, gifts that matched Milly’s in expense. He was careful to do that, to try and play fair, treat the kids as equals. But Harlan’s reactions were always muted. Fucking kid always seemed to be watching you, somehow. As if he didn’t understand normal reactions but was sort of copying yours in the hope that his own would look right.

‘Can I hold him?’ Harlan asked, his eyes on the baby.

‘Nah,’ said Charlie. ‘Not yet, he’s too little. You might drop him.’