safely, a chance to spread his wings without crashing and burning.
And all he'd done in return was to give them grief. Guilt washed over him as he remembered his latest madness. This time, he'd gone too far. It had started as a joke, nicking Henry Cavendish's motor. He'd had no idea then where it might lead. None of the others could save him from the consequences if this came out, he realized that. He only hoped he wouldn't bring them down with him.
Weird slotted his new Clash tape into the stereo and threw himself down on the bed. He'd listen to the first side, then he'd get ready for bed. He had to be up at five to meet Alex and Mondo for their early shift at the supermarket. Normally, the prospect of rising so early would have depressed the hell out of him. But the way things were here, it would be a relief to be out of the house, a mercy to have something to stop his mind spinning in circles. Christ, he wished he had a joint.
At least his father's emotional brutality had pushed the invasive thoughts of Rosie Duff to one side. By the time Joe Strummer sang "Julie's in the Drug Squad," Weird was locked in deep, dreamless sleep.
Karel Malkiewicz drove like an old man at the best of times. Hesitant, slow, entirely unpredictable at junctions. He was also a fair-weather driver. Under normal circumstances, the first sign of fog or frost would mean the car stayed put and he'd walk down the steep hill of Massareene Road to Bennochy, where he could catch a bus that would take him to Factory Road and his work as an electrician in the floor-covering works. It had been a long time since the disappearance of the pall of linseed oil that had given the town its reputation of "the queer-like smell," but although linoleum had plummeted out of fashion, what came out of Nairn's factory still covered the floors of millions of kitchens, bathrooms and hallways. It had given Karel Malkiewicz a decent living since he'd come out of the RAF after the war, and he was grateful.
That didn't mean he'd forgotten the reasons why he'd left Krakow in the first place. Nobody could survive that toxic atmosphere of mistrust and perfidy without scars, especially not a Polish Jew who had been lucky enough to get out before the pogrom that had left him without a family to call his own.
He'd had to rebuild his life, create a new family for himself. His old family had never been particularly observant, so he hadn't felt too bereft by his abandonment of his religion. There were no Jews in Kirkcaldy, he remembered someone telling him a few days after he'd arrived in the town. The sentiment was clear: "That's the way we like it." And so he'd assimilated, even going so far as to marry his wife in a Catholic church. He'd learned how to belong in this strange, insular land that had made him welcome. He'd surprised himself at the fierce possessive pride he'd felt when a Pole had become Pope so recently. He so seldom thought of himself as Polish these days.
He'd been almost forty when the son he'd always dreamed of had finally arrived. It was a cause for rejoicing, but also for a renewal of fear. Now he had so much more to lose. This was a civilized country. The fascists could never gain a hold here. That was the received wisdom, anyway. But Germany too had been a civilized country. No one could predict what might happen in any country when the numbers of the dispossessed reached a critical mass. Anyone who promised salvation would find a following.
And lately, there had been good grounds for fear. The National Front were creeping through the political undergrowth. Strikes and industrial unrest were making the government edgy. The IRA's bombing campaign gave the politicians all the excuses they needed for introducing repressive measures. And that cold bitch who ran the Tory party talked of immigrants swamping the indigenous culture. Oh yes, the seeds were all there.
So when Alex Gilbey had rung and told him his son had spent the night in a police station, Karel Malkiewicz had no choice. He wanted his boy under his roof, under his wing. Nobody would come and take his son away in the night. He wrapped up warmly, instructing his wife to prepare a flask of hot soup and a parcel