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doubled.
    I kick out at the ground and turn up a stone. I bend down and pick it up. It’s muddy, but what does that matter? I straighten my body and aim for the water, then see movement on the other side of the pond: a man, with a rifle and a satchel. He hurries away, but I recognize his walk and his lank black hair.
    â€˜Steve!’
    He doesn’t hear me, and I can’t catch up with him from here even if I wanted to. The shifty bugger probably couldn’t see who I was and decided to scarper for fear of getting caught shooting where he shouldn’t. I throw the stone. It hits the water with a satisfying splash.

‌ ‌ 4
February 1996
    â€Œ ‌ Barry was waiting outside the prison just as he’d promised, and when Jim walked over, he opened the car door for him.
    â€˜All right?’
    â€˜Aye, I’m all right.’ Jim paused and looked at Barry, who didn’t move but looked straight back.
    â€˜Get in, then, unless you want to hang about here.’
    â€˜No. No, let’s go.’
    When Jim was seated, Barry closed the door on him and walked round to the driver’s side. Jim watched him through the windscreen; as he passed, he dragged his fingertips across the bonnet. Then he got in and started the engine.
    â€˜It’s not mine. I’ve borrowed it for the day.’
    â€˜Right.’
    â€˜We’re buying a van, like. For work.’
    Jim nodded and looked out of his window. Barry reversed out of the parking space and they drove off.
    When they got onto the dual carriageway, Jim began to take notice of the road signs because they weren’t right. They didn’t point home, to the village.
    â€˜Are you taking me to Middlesbrough?’
    â€˜Aye.’ Barry kept his eyes on the road.
    â€˜Why?’ Jim felt suspicious. If he had allowed himself to imagine anything, this would not have been it.
    Barry smiled thinly. ‘You’ll see.’
    â€˜For fuck’s sake, Baz, I’ve only been out for twenty minutes. Can we not just go to the pub?’
    â€˜There’s plenty of time for that.’
    Jim felt uneasy. The heater was on in the car and the air was close. The jeans they had given him didn’t fit properly – too tight on the thighs. Barry smelled of aftershave. Jim started to feel carsick.
    â€˜Stop. I’m going to throw up.’
    On the hard shoulder, Barry didn’t stay in the car, but got out and stood almost near enough to Jim to have his shoes splashed. Jim disgorged his breakfast in a long stream, and when he was done, he hooked his tongue through his mouth to pick up the pieces of half-digested food and spat them into the grass. Some of the sick was in his nose and he dislodged it with a hard snort; the chunks spidered to the ground in a thread of mucus. Jim watched them fall, then wiped his mouth and stood up.
    The traffic hurtled past them. The air-wash of the trucks was strong and it made the car rock on its suspension. Jim looked around. There was just the road, the embankment, and then, probably, fields.
    â€˜Are you finished?’
    â€˜Yeah. What the fuck are we doing?’
    â€˜Trust us.’
    Barry turned to walk round the car, and Jim shouted after him, ‘But I don’t fucking trust you!’
    Barry spun back to Jim and threw his arms out to the side. ‘What else have you got? Are you going to stand here? Are you going to walk home?’ Jim couldn’t answer. They faced each other, like that, at the side of the road until Barry spoke again, calm this time. ‘Get in the car, man,’ and Jim did.
    â€”
    Later, they sat in a café on Linthorpe Road, and Jim could see people everywhere, just doing things: walking, shopping, eating, drinking. Eventually, he had to stare at the Formica tabletop so Barry wouldn’t see that his head was spinning. It was the women, mainly. Jim knew that he was supposed to find them attractive, but he wasn’t prepared for the colours