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They had eaten jelly and had sack races。 Tessa had told Krystal off because； trying desperately hard to win a plastic medal； she had pushed other children out of the way。 One of them had had a nosebleed。
‘You enjoyed St Thomas’s； though； did you？’ the journalist had asked。
‘Yeah；’ said Krystal； but she knew that she had not conveyed what Mr Fairbrother had wanted her to convey； and wished he could have been there with her to help。 ‘Yeah； I enjoyed it。’）
‘How e they wanted to talk to you about the Fields？’ asked Fats。
‘It were Mr Fairbrother’s idea；’ said Krystal。
After another few minutes； Fats asked； ‘D’you smoke？’
‘Wha’； like spliffs？ Yeah； I dunnit with Dane。’
‘I’ve got some on me；’ said Fats。
‘Get it off Skye Kirby； didja？’ asked Krystal。 He wondered whether he imagined a trace of amusement in her voice； because Skye was the soft； safe option； the place the middle…class kids went。 If so； Fats liked her authentic derision。
‘Where d’you get yours； then？’ he asked； interested now。
‘I dunno； it were Dane’s；’ she said。
‘From Obbo？’ suggested Fats。
‘Tha’ fuckin’ tosser。’
‘What’s wrong with him？’
But Krystal had no words for what was wrong with Obbo； and even if she had； she would not have wanted to talk about him。 Obbo made her flesh crawl； sometimes he came round and shot up with Terri； at other times he fucked her； and Krystal would meet him on the stairs； tugging up his filthy fly； smiling at her through his bottle…bottom glasses。 Often Obbo had little jobs to offer Terri； like hiding the puters； or giving strangers a place to stay for a night； or agreeing to perform services of which Krystal did not know the nature； but which took her mother out of the house for hours。
Krystal had had a nightmare； not long ago； in which her mother had bee stretched； spread and tied on a kind of frame； she was mostly a vast； gaping hole； like a giant； raw； plucked chicken； and in the dream； Obbo was walking in and out of this cavernous interior； and fiddling with things in there； while Terri’s tiny head was frightened and grim。 Krystal had woken up feeling sick and angry and disgusted。
‘’E’s a fucker；’ said Krystal。
‘Is he a tall bloke with a shaved head and tattoos all up the back of his neck？’ asked Fats； who had truanted for a second time that week； and sat on a wall for an hour in the Fields； watching。 The bald man had interested him； fiddling around in the back of an old white van。
‘Nah； tha’s Pikey Pritchard；’ said Krystal； ‘if yeh saw him down Tarpen Road。’
‘What does he do？’
‘I dunno；’ said Krystal。 ‘Ask Dane； ’e’s mates with Pikey’s brother。’
But she liked his genuine interest； he had never shown this much inclination to talk to her before。
‘Pikey’s on probation。’
‘What for？’
‘He glassed a bloke down the Cross Keys。’
‘Why？’
‘’Ow the fuck do I know？ I weren’t there；’ said Krystal。
She was happy； which always made her cocky。 Setting aside her worry about Nana Cath （who was； after all； still alive； so might yet recover）； it had been a good couple of weeks。 Terri was adhering to the Bellchapel regime again； and Krystal was making sure that Robbie went to nursery。 His bottom had mostly healed over。 The social worker seemed as pleased as her sort ever did。 Krystal had been to school every day too； though she had not attended either her Monday or her Wednesday morning guidance sessions with Tessa。 She did not know why。 Sometimes you got out of the habit。
She glanced sideways at Fats again。 She had never once thought of fancying him； not until he had targeted her at the disco in the drama hall。 Everyone knew Fats； some of his jokes were passed around like funny stuff that happened on the telly。 （Krystal pretended to everyone that they had a television at home。 She watched enough at friends’ houses； and at Nana Cath’s； to be able to bluff her way through。 ‘Yeah； it were shit； weren’t it？’ ‘I know； I nearly pissed meself；’ she would say； when the others talked about programmes they had seen。）
Fats was imagining how it would feel to be glassed； how the jagged shard would slice through the tender flesh on his face； he could feel the searing nerves and the sting of the air against his ripped skin； the warm wetness as blood gushed。 He felt a tickly over…sensitivity in the skin around his mouth； as if it was already scarred。
‘Is he still carrying a blade； Dane？’ he asked。
‘’Ow d’you know ’e’s gotta blade？’ demanded Krystal。
‘He threatened Kevin Cooper with it。’
‘Oh； yeah；’ Krystal conceded。 ‘Cooper’s a twat； innee？’
‘Yeah； he is；’ said Fats。
‘Dane’s on’y carryin’ ’cos o’ the Riordon brothers；’ said Krystal。
Fats liked the matter…of…factness of Krystal’s tone； her acceptance of the need for a knife； because there was a grudge and a likelihood of violence。 This was the raw reality of life； these were things that actually mattered … before Arf had arrived at the house that day； Cubby had been importuning Tessa to give him an opinion on whether his campaign leaflet should be printed on yellow or white paper …
‘What about in there？’ suggested Fats； after a while。
To their right was a long stone wall； its gates open to reveal a glimpse of green and stone。
‘Yeah； all righ’；’ said Krystal。 She had been in the cemetery once before； with Nikki and Leanne； they had sat on a grave and split a couple of cans； a little self…conscious about what they were doing； until a woman had shouted at them and called them names。 Leanne had lobbed an empty can back at the woman as they left。
But it was too exposed； Fats thought； as he and Krystal walked up the broad concreted walkway between the graves： green and flat； the headstones offering virtually no cover。 Then he saw barberry hedges along the wall on the far side。 He cut a path right across the cemetery； and Krystal followed； hands in her pockets； as they picked their way between rectangular gravel beds； headstones cracked and illegible。 It was a large cemetery； wide and well tended。 Gradually they reached the newer graves of highly polished black marble with gold lettering； places where fresh flowers had been laid for the recently dead。
To Lyndsey Kyle； September 15 1960–March 26 2008；
Sleep Tight Mum。
‘Yeah； we’ll be all right in there；’ said Fats； eyeing the dark gap between the prickly； yellow…flowered bushes and the cemetery wall。
They crawled into the damp shadows； onto the earth； their backs against the cold wall。 The headstones marched away from them between the bushes’ trunks； but there were no human forms among them。 Fats skinned up expertly； hoping that Krystal was watching； and was impressed。
But she was gazing out under the canopy of glossy dark leaves； thinking about Anne…Marie； who （Aunt Cheryl had told her） had e to visit Nana Cath on Thursday。 If only she had skipped school and gone at the same time； they could have met at last。 She had fantasized； many times； about how she would meet Anne…Marie； and say to her； ‘I’m yer sister。’ Anne…Marie； in these fantasies； was always delighted； and they saw each other all the time after that； and eventually Anne…Marie suggested that Krystal move in。 The imaginary Anne…Marie had a house like Nana Cath’s； neat and clean； except that it was much more modern。 Lately； in her fantasies； Krystal had added a sweet little pink baby in a frilly crib。
‘There you go；’ said Fats； handing Krystal the joint。 She inhaled； held the smoke in her lungs for a few seconds； and her expression softened into dreaminess as the cannabis worked its magic。
‘You ain’ got brothers an’ sisters；’ she asked； ‘’ave yeh？’
‘No；’ said Fats； checking his pocket for the condoms he had brought。
Krystal handed back the joint； her head swimming pleasantly。 Fats took an enormous drag and blew smoke rings。
‘I’m adopted；’ he said； after a while。
Krystal goggled at Fats。
‘Are yeh adopted； are yeh？’
With the senses a little muffled and cushioned； confidences peeled easily away； everything became easy。
‘My sister wuz adopted；’ said Krystal； marvelling at the coincidence； delighted to talk about Anne…Marie。
‘Yeah； I proba