All The Lonely People - David Owen Page 0,41

disreputable sources about anti-fascist protests turning violent, Muslim terror suspects being released from custody early, feminist critics rallying against a movie about zombie strippers.

Of course, TrumourPixel was also following Niko Denton. She clicked through to his profile and read his latest tweet. It was quoting a question somebody had asked him.

Should we take action against the women’s march in London tomorrow?

Niko’s response read: I don’t know, what do you think? It was finished with an emoji of somebody painting their nails.

It was a simple but effective trick: incite hatred and violence, but always in a way that would allow you to wash your hands of it.

This was who TrumourPixel was trying to impress with whatever he was planning. These were the people Kat had always wanted to fight. Maybe the fade meant she could.

Wesley knew he shouldn’t feel proud about his ability to wax cars, but he was definitely getting better at it. Every time Dave walked past and offered an impressed nod he couldn’t deny the surge of pleasure it gave him.

‘You’re a loser,’ he whispered to himself as he circled away the last smear of wax from his third car of the afternoon. The pleasure always quickly caved into shame.

At least it took his mind off what had happened earlier. The looks on their faces as he had run from the garage. Whether they were going to come after him or not. The fact that he couldn’t stop thinking about the reasons Tru had given him for everything in his life going wrong.

‘Take a break,’ said Dave, emerging from the back office to hand him a mug of tea. They leaned against one of the unwashed cars and sipped their drinks – not half enough sugar for Wesley’s taste – in silence for a few moments.

Dave sighed with pleasure and held his mug against his chest. ‘You’re a natural at this.’

‘It’s not exactly rocket science.’

‘Rocket scientists are too smug to polish their rockets.’

Wesley looked at him sideways. ‘I bet you’d never stop polishing your rocket if you had the chance.’

Dave lifted his mug, oblivious. ‘You’re not wrong.’

They both took a long draught of tea, Wesley using it to stifle his laughter, before exhaling contentedly together.

‘Was everything all right with your brother the other night?’

Wesley stiffened, defences automatically coming awake. ‘Yeah, nothing to worry about.’

‘That’s good.’ Dave turned to face him in a movement that was meant to be casual, but was clearly anything but. ‘I don’t need to worry about him, right?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Maybe it’s not my place to judge because I wasn’t around before, but from what your mum’s told me . . . I need to know Jordan can be trusted.’

Wesley put his mug on the roof of the car and turned to face him. ‘Or you’ll do what?’

Dave smiled unconvincingly. ‘It’s not like that. It’s my job to look after you both.’

‘It’s not your job. We were fine before you showed up.’

‘Hey, Wes, I didn’t mean—’

Wesley turned away and made for the office, satisfied that his shift was over. All at once he was desperate to be home. If there was any problem with Jordan, he would deal with it himself.

16

People Like Us

The fountain sent three perfect jets of water arcing up and up, where they seemed to hang suspended for a long moment, glistening in the lights of the surrounding bars and restaurants, before they dropped into the pool below where crisp packets floated like lily pads. Specks of water darkened the paving stones at Safa’s feet as she spotted Kat’s approach, pushing herself up from the edge of the concrete bowl.

Their condition should have made it impossible to be brazen, but Safa had managed it; she wore jean shorts cut off high up her thighs, white frays dancing against her skin as she walked, and a sleeveless top left her arms bare. The nesting doll locket rested on her collar bone. The fade was visible even in the dying light, the balletics of the fountain shimmering through her skin like shooting stars across a night sky. It was oddly mesmerising, and Kat’s doubts about the evening seemed to melt away as she sped up to reach her.

‘Whoa, careful!’ shouted Safa.

There was a screech of wheels. Kat jumped out of the path of the mobility train, an electronic cart that towed people up and down the slope of the high street. The driver glared at his feet, searching for some technical problem to blame, and then swerved around her to resume his rounds.

‘You’re