had the sensation that he was plummeting through the air in a broken lift.
‘Someone,’ said Simon, glaring at his sons, ‘has talked about things I’ve mentioned inside this house.’
Paul had brought his chemistry exercise book downstairs with him; he was holding it like a hymnal. Andrew kept his gaze fixed on his father, trying to project an expression of mingled confusion and curiosity.
‘Who’s told other people we’ve got a stolen computer?’ asked Simon.
‘I haven’t,’ said Andrew.
Paul stared at his father blankly, trying to process the question. Andrew willed his brother to speak. Why did he have to be so slow?
‘Well?’ Simon snarled at Paul.
‘I don’t think I—’
‘You don’t think? You don’t think you told anyone?’
‘No, I don’t think I told any—’
‘Oh, this is interesting,’ said Simon, pacing up and down in front of Paul. ‘This is interesting.’
With a slap he sent Paul’s exercise book flying out of his hands.
‘Try and think, dipshit,’ he growled. ‘Try and fucking think. Did you tell anyone we’ve got a stolen computer?’
‘Not stolen,’ said Paul. ‘I never told anyone — I don’t think I told anyone we had a new one, even.’
‘I see,’ said Simon. ‘So the news got out by magic then, did it?’
He was pointing at the computer monitor.
‘Someone’s fucking talked!’ he yelled, ‘because it’s on the fucking internet! And I’ll be fucking lucky not — to — lose — my — job!’
On each of the five last words he thumped Paul on the head with his fist. Paul cowered and ducked; black liquid trickled from his left nostril; he suffered nosebleeds several times a week.
‘And what about you?’ Simon roared at his wife, who was still frozen beside the computer, her eyes wide behind her glasses, her hand clamped like a yashmak over her mouth. ‘Have you been fucking gossiping?’
Ruth ungagged herself.
‘No, Si,’ she whispered, ‘I mean, the only person I told we had a new computer was Shirley — and she’d never—’
You stupid woman, you stupid fucking woman, what did you have to tell him that for?
‘You did what?’ asked Simon quietly.
‘I told Shirley,’ whimpered Ruth. ‘I didn’t say it was stolen, though, Si. I only said you were bringing it home—’
‘Well, that’s fucking it then, isn’t it?’ roared Simon; his voice became a scream. ‘Her fucking son’s standing for election, of course she wants to get the fucking goods on me!’
‘But she’s the one who told me, Si, just now, she wouldn’t have—’
He ran at her and hit her in the face, exactly as he had wanted to when he had first seen her silly frightened expression; her glasses spun into the air and smashed against the bookcase; he hit her again and she crashed down onto the computer table she had bought so proudly with her first month’s wages from South West General.
Andrew had made himself a promise: he seemed to move in slow motion, and everything was cold and clammy and slightly unreal.
‘Don’t hit her,’ he said, forcing himself between his parents. ‘Don’t—’
His lip split against his front tooth, Simon’s knuckle behind it, and he fell backwards on top of his mother, who was draped over the keyboard; Simon threw another punch, which hit Andew’s arms as he protected his face; Andrew was trying to get off his slumped, struggling mother, and Simon was in a frenzy, pummelling both of them wherever he could reach—
‘Don’t you fucking dare tell me what to do — don’t you dare, you cowardly little shit, you spotty streak of piss—’
Andrew dropped to his knees to get out of the way, and Simon kicked him in the ribs. Andrew heard Paul say pathetically, ‘Stop it!’ Simon’s foot swung for Andrew’s ribcage again, but Andrew dodged it; Simon’s toes collided with the brick fireplace and he was suddenly, absurdly, howling in pain.
Andrew scrambled out of the way; Simon was gripping the end of his foot, hopping on the spot and swearing in a high-pitched voice; Ruth had collapsed into the swivel chair, sobbing into her hands. Andrew got to his feet; he could taste his own blood.
‘Anyone could have talked about that computer,’ he panted, braced for further violence; he felt braver now that it had begun, now that the fight was really on; it was waiting that told on your nerves, watching Simon’s jaw begin to jut, and hearing the urge for violence building in his voice. ‘You told us a security guard got beaten up. Anyone could have talked. It’s not us—’
‘Don’t you — fucking little shit — I’ve broken my fucking