Lucy catches Harry’s eye, and she cringes as she mouths to him: They’re under the fish.

Harry grimaces.

He has to admit, it’s an ingenious hiding place. Not only are they buried, the mound of fish would stop the smell good and proper. And Lucy couldn’t have known that bloody Mitch would want to count the bloody fish.

‘Twelve, thirteen,’ Mitch counts, and Harry prays that he’ll realise it’s impossible for the bucket to hold another seventeen fish and will stop. But he knows Mitch: knows that Mitch will be loving this—being the centre of attention, being the man with the power—and will press on and so find the birds.

Sure enough, when he gets to fifteen, the counting stops. ‘What’s this?’ he asks, looking down at them and holding one of the chicks up by its feet for them to see. ‘What have you three been up to?’

‘We only got a couple,’ Flo bursts out. ‘And we only done it this once. Honest!’

‘Jesus. I know you know it’s illegal, Flo,’ he says, pointing his finger at her imperiously, brandishing it as if it wielded all the power of the law.

‘Mate, could you turn a blind eye, just this once, for old—’ Harry starts, but Mitch cuts him off.

‘Don’t ask me that, mate. I got obligations now,’ he says, and he turns the finger that had been pointing to Flo on himself, jabbing himself in the chest with it, imbibing himself with that power.

‘So what’s going to happen?’ Lucy asks in a small voice.

‘Well. I’ll have to seize these, as evidence. And write you up. And you’ll have to appear in court.’

‘And then what’ll happen?’ Lucy asks.

‘You’ll get a whopping fine and it’ll go on your record. But, Harry,’ he says, now grinning again, ‘for old time’s sake, and ’cos I’m in such a good mood, if you want, I’ll only write one of you up.’

This is just like Mitch, Harry thinks bitterly. He won’t relinquish his power, but he’s more than happy to play the big man in town, try to win their gratitude by doing them a bullshit favour.

‘Then write me up,’ Flo says.

‘What, Flo? No!’ Lucy protests, but Flo cuts her off.

‘Don’t be stupid, Lucy, it’ll go down bad with your job if you get a record for poaching, and Harry: I’m your mother. It was me that did it anyway—not you two.’ As she says this, she points a finger—this one loaded with fierce maternal clout—first at Lucy, then at Harry, and gives them both a look so severe Harry knows there’s no point arguing with her.

‘Righto,’ Mitch says. ‘Step over here a moment, Flo, and I’ll get your details.’

‘Oh my god, I feel awful,’ Lucy says to Harry as Flo and Mitch talk. ‘I mean, I talked her into this!’

‘We did,’ Harry murmurs. ‘But Mum’s right: it makes more sense for it to go on her record than yours. And she’d skin me alive if I tried to take the blame for it.’