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am I supposed to have done now, then?’

      ‘It’s probably just gossip,’ Kathleen said quickly. ‘But, well, he said …’

      ‘Yes, he said …’

      ‘Well, he said there’d been some talk about you asking around for a gun. What’s he on about?’ She put the pint glasses down on the bar.

      The change in Darren’s expression was instantaneous. His eyes narrowed and – was she imagining it? She didn’t think so – all the colour seemed to drain out of his face. He’d drained his pint while she’d been speaking and now he slammed the glass down on the bar. Then he raised a finger and jabbed it towards her, the ready smile long gone.

      ‘You better not repeat that to anyone, Kathleen, do you hear me?’

      ‘I wasn’t saying I was –’

      ‘Not a word, you hear? You hear me? God, I am that fucking sick of all the gobby twats in this pub! Not a word, do you hear?’

      ‘Not a word!’ she parroted back at him, his threatening tone – he’d stood up now – making her take a step back. But she couldn’t just leave it. ‘So it’s true then?’ she carried on, almost in a whisper. ‘Darren, have you been asking to buy a gun? Why?’

      Her stepbrother grabbed her by the shoulders, hard, his fingers digging in. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him so angry – so properly angry, not the half-pretend ranting he did whenever Irene really got on his nerves. That was for effect. This wasn’t. He meant it.

      He looked straight into her eyes, the blue of his own like ice. ‘I’m warning you, Kathleen. You need to mind your own business about this and keep your trap shut. You need to button it. What I do is nothing to do with Terry Harris, you hear me? Or you, or any fucker else. Now I mean it, I don’t want to hear another word about it, and if anyone else cares to mouth off about me, you just send them my way, alright? Terry fucking Harris! Who the hell does he think he is?’

      Kathleen nodded vigorously, feeling even more frightened now. She had never seen Darren this angry. He was usually so laid back and unruffled by anything. What on earth had he got himself involved with? Who on earth, more to the point? ‘I promise, Daz, I won’t say anything,’ she tried to reassure him. He let her go. ‘I just thought I should tell you, that’s all. I didn’t mean to make trouble. I was just worried about you. That you’re not in trouble, that was all.’

      He exhaled, tugged his jacket straight. Patted her shoulder, almost warmly. ‘Good lass,’ he said finally, as if having satisfied himself about her. ‘Keep this between you and me, our kid, eh? Okay? And stop taking notice of idle gossip from folk who know nowt about nowt. Now, let’s forget about it, eh? How about me and you sneak another quick half before your dad comes down, eh?’

      Shaken as much by the turnaround in his mood as his failure to deny it, Kathleen quickly pulled two halves of lager. She’d never normally drink in the daytime – she didn’t drink hardly at all, really. Barely even at the weekend, let alone on a weekday. But she knew her stepbrother was hiding something, and that, whatever it was, it was serious. She needed something to settle the butterflies in her stomach.

      John came in just as they finished them, having settled into silence, her clearing up and wiping, Darren staring straight ahead. Thinking what? She wondered. Thinking what?

      ‘Alright love?’ asked her dad. She hoped he couldn’t see she wasn’t. ‘You look nice, Dad,’ she said, trying to cover her own anxiety. And he did. He always did at this time in the evening. Tall, slim and handsome, in his nice suit and tie. Making an effort, as he always did, for the customers.

      He patted Darren’s arm as he passed him. ‘Terry Harris?’ he said lightly. ‘What’s he been doing to get you niggled?’

      So he’d heard them talking. Must have popped down to the cellar first and heard Darren raising his voice. Kathleen shot a look in Darren’s direction, but he wasn’t looking at her.

      ‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ he said breezily. ‘Just giving our Kathleen some advice. I was just telling her’ – now he glanced at her – ‘pick on someone your own age. What is he – thirty-two? Thirty-three? Much too old for her to be sniffing around with that daft look on her face.’

      Kathleen felt her cheeks begin to flush. She didn’t know where to look, let alone what to say.

      Her father looked at her. ‘Terry Harris? You sweet on Terry Harris?’

      The answer came quickly, automatically, out of anger more than anything. It might have been quick thinking but it was too bloody quick! And way too close to the mark for comfort. Darren had actually noticed that? When? How?

      But perhaps he was just thinking on his feet. That wouldn’t be unusual. ‘No, I am not sweet on Terry Harris,’ she snapped, bridling genuinely as she said it. ‘We were just chatting about Auntie Sally. Which’ – she glared at Darren – ‘is allowed. He is best friends with Uncle Ronnie, or had you forgotten that?’

      Her father’s expression told her he didn’t believe her. So had he noticed too? He chuckled. ‘If you say so, love,’ he said. ‘But Darren’s right. He is a shade old for you. Still –’

      ‘I am not sweet on Terry bloody Harris, Dad!’ she thundered.

      ‘So nothing to scrap about then,’ he said mildly. He almost chuckled. ‘Anyway, what you doing home so early, lad?’ he asked Darren. He got the same answer. ‘Well, there’s a nice bit o’ stew in the pan up there if you’re hungry.’

      Darren headed off, giving Kathleen a final warning look as he did so, reminding her – as if he needed to – that that was that as far as she was concerned. Well, so be it. That would teach her not to get involved in his business. He was twenty. A grown man. He could fight his own battles. Even so, a gun. And had he got one? She realised she didn’t even know.

      She finished up with the tables, while her dad got the bar ready, glancing across from time to time, feeling his eyes might be on her. They weren’t – he seemed as absorbed in his work as he ever was, but, even so, it rankled that he’d said what he’d said – even with the twinkle in his eye as he’d said it.

      And as for bloody Darren – Darren who she often liked, and at worst rubbed along okay with – possibly getting himself in trouble. Yet another thing to worry about. A secret she didn’t want to keep for him. Should she tell her dad? Put him straight? But everything in his body language had told her not to. Not now, when, for all his dapper looks and ready smiles, he carried the burden of being married to that harridan upstairs like a physical weight around his neck. And with money always so tight, and her constant selfish nagging …

      ‘Right, that’s me done, I think,’ she said, smiling across the pub at him. ‘I’m off upstairs. What sort of mood is she in?’

      ‘She’s having a nap just now,’ her dad said. ‘But I’d keep out of her way for a bit. Migraine’s still niggling …’ he tailed off. He didn’t need to say any more.

      And hopefully she’ll bloody stay napping, Kathleen thought irritably as she made her way up the stairs. For forty days and forty nights, ideally. But no such luck – she could hear her and Darren talking in the front room.

      And about her, it seemed. ‘You pissing little trollop!’ Irene said to her, as she entered the room. ‘Terry frigging Harris! He’s a widower, you little slut. Have you no respect?’

      Once again, Kathleen found herself glaring at Darren. He’d obviously come up and given his mam the same ridiculous story. Talk about covering your tracks and creating a diversion. This was ridiculous!

      But Darren, presumably seeing her fury, was equally quick to defend her. ‘Oh, don’t go off on one, Mam,’ he said.

      ‘Go off on one?’ she rounded. ‘We keep a respectable pub here,

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