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them with the rolled-up newspaper.’

‘You get three attempts, and if you miss all three you have to stay on and get hit by the next player,’ says Sylvie, elated at the prospect of a Victorian parlour game, ‘and if you hit the other person you get to choose your next contestant. That’s how we play it anyway.’

‘So—’ says Murray, tapping the palm of his hand with the paper truncheon. ‘Who’s for some Extreme Sports?’

It is decided that Sam will take on Dexter the intruder and that, surprise surprise, Sam will get the baton. The field of battle is the large faded rug in the middle of the room, and Sylvie leads him into position then stands behind him, tying a large white napkin over his eyes, a princess favouring her loyal knight. He gets one last glimpse of Sam kneeling opposite him, smirking from behind his blindfold as he taps the palm of his hand with the baton, and Dexter is suddenly overwhelmed by the need to win this game and show the family what he’s made of. ‘Show them how it’s done,’ whispers Sylvie, her breath hot in his ear, and he remembers the moment in the kitchen, his hand between her legs. Now she takes his elbow and helps him kneel, and the adversaries face each other in silence like gladiators in the arena of the Persian rug.

‘Let the games commence!’ says Lionel, like an emperor.

‘Are you there, Moriarty?’ says Sam with a snigger. ‘Here,’ says Dexter, then like a limbo dancer deftly

leans backwards.

The first blow hits him just below the eye, making a

satisfying slapping sound that echoes round the room. ‘Oooh!’ and ‘Ouch!’ say the Copes, laughing at his pain. ‘That’s gotta hurt,’ says Murray maddeningly, and Dexter feels a deep sting of humiliation while he laughs goodnaturedly, a hearty, well-done-you laugh. ‘You got me!’ he concedes, rubbing his cheek, but Sam has smelt blood and is already asking—

‘Are you there, Moriarty?’ ‘Ye . . .’

Before he can move, the second blow slaps against his buttock, causing him to flinch and stumble to the side, and again there is laughter from the family, and a low hissing ‘yessssss’ from Sam.

‘Nice one, Sammy,’ says the mother, proud of her boy, and Dexter suddenly has a deep hatred of this stupid fucking game, which seems to be some weird family ritual of humiliation . . .

‘Two out of two,’ guffaws Murray. ‘Nice one, bro.’

. . . and don’t say ‘bro’ either you little tit, thinks Dexter, fuming now because if there’s one thing that he hates it’s being laughed at, especially by this lot, who clearly think he’s a loser, all washed-up and not up to the job of being their precious Sylvie’s boyfriend. ‘I think I’ve got the hang of it now,’ he chortles, clinging to a sense of humour while at the same time wanting to pummel Sammy’s face with his fists—

‘Let’s get ready to rumble . . .’ says Murray, in that voice again.

—or a frying pan, a cast iron frying pan—

‘So here goes – three out of three methinks . . .’

—a ball-peen hammer, or a mace— ‘Are you there, Moriarty?’ says Sam.

‘Here!’ says Dexter, and like a ninja he twists at his waist, ducking down and to the right.

The third blow is an insolent poke in the shoulder with the blunt end that sends Dexter sprawling backwards into the coffee table. The prod is so impertinent and precise that he’s convinced that Sam must be cheating, and he tears his blindfold off to confront him, finding instead Sylvie leaning over him, laughing, actually laughing regardless of what it does to her face.

‘A hit! A palpable hit!’ shrieks that little shit Murray, and Dexter clambers to his feet, his face a grimace of delight. There’s a little round of patronising applause.

‘YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!’ crows Sam, teeth bared, his ruddy face screwed up, two fists pulled slowly towards his chest in victory.

‘Better luck next time!’ drawls Helen, the wicked Roman empress.

‘You’ll get the hang of it,’ growls Lionel and, enraged, Dexter notices that the twins are holding finger and thumbs to their foreheads in an L shape. L for loser.

‘Well I’m still proud of you,’ pouts Sylvie, ruffling his hair and patting his knee, as he sinks into the sofa next to her. Shouldn’t she be on his side? When it comes to loyalty, he thinks, she’s still one of them.

The tournament continues. Murray beats Sam, then Lionel beats Murray, then Lionel gets beaten by Helen, and it’s all very convivial and jolly, these neat little bops and taps with the rolled-up newspaper, all much jollier than

when it was Dexter out there getting clubbed around the face with what felt like a length of scaffolding. From deep in the sofa he watches and scowls and, as part of his revenge, quietly sets about emptying a bottle of Lionel’s very good claret. There was a time when he could do this kind of thing. If he was twenty-three again he would feel confident and charming and self-assured, but he has lost the knack somehow and his mood darkens as the bottle empties.

Then Helen beats Murray and Sam beats Helen and now it’s Sam’s turn to try and strike his sister, and there is at least some pleasure and pride in watching how good Sylvie is at the game, effortlessly avoiding her little brother’s desperate swipes, twisting and ducking at the waist, supple and sporty, his golden girl. He watches, smiling, from deep in the sofa and just when he thinks they’ve all forgotten about him:

‘Come on then. Your go!’ Sylvie is holding out the baton towards him.

‘But you just won!’

‘I know, but you haven’t had a chance to bat yet, poor thing,’ she pouts. ‘Come on. Have a go. Take me on!’

The Copes all love the idea of this – there’s a low, pagan rumble of excitement, bizarrely vaguely sexual, and clearly he has no choice. His honour, the honour of the Mayhews is at stake here. Solemnly Dexter puts down his glass, stands and takes the baton.

‘You’re sure about this?’ he says, kneeling on the carpet an arm’s length away. ‘Because I’m a pretty good tennis player.’

‘Oh, I’m sure,’ she says, grinning provocatively, shaking out her hands like a gymnast as the blindfold is tied.

‘And I think I might be quite good at this.’

Behind him, Sam ties his blindfold tight as a tourniquet. ‘We’ll see, won’t we?’

The arena falls silent.

‘Okay, are you ready?’ says Dexter. ‘Oh yes.’

He grips the baton with both hands, arms level at his shoulder. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m ready when you . . .’

Momentarily an image flickers in his mind – a baseball player on his mound – as he slices diagonally with the bat, a tremendous uppercut that swishes audibly through the air and from behind the blindfold the impact feels fantastic as it sends tremors along both arms and into his chest. A moment of awed silence follows and for a moment Dexter is sure that he has done very, very well. And then he hears a crash, and an appalled cry goes up in unison from the whole family.

‘SYLVIE!’ ‘Oh my God!’

‘Sweetheart, darling, are you okay?’

Dexter tears off his blindfold to see that Sylvie has somehow been transported to the far side of the room, slumped over in the fireplace like a marionette with all her strings cut. Her eyes are blinking wide and her hand is cupped to her face, but it’s already possible to see the dark rivulet of blood as it trickles down beneath her nose.

She is moaning quietly to herself.

‘Oh my God, I am so sorry!’ he exclaims, horrified. Immediately he crosses towards her, but the family has already closed in.

‘Good God, Dexter, what the hell were you thinking?’ barks red-faced Lionel, drawing himself up to his full height.

‘YOU DIDN’T EVEN ASK IF SHE WAS THERE MORIARTY!’ shrieks her mother.

‘Didn’t I? Sorry—’

‘No, you just lashed out crazily!’ ‘Like a madman—’

‘Sorry. Sorry, I forgot. I was—’

‘—Drunk!’ says Sam. The accusation hangs in the air. ‘You’re drunk, man. You’re completely pissed!’

They all turn and glare.

‘It really was an accident. I just caught your face at an odd angle.’

Sylvie tugs on Helen’s sleeve. ‘How does it look?’ she asks in a tearful voice as she discreetly removes her cupped hand from her nose. It’s as if she’s holding a fistful of strawberry sorbet.

‘It’s really not too bad,’ gasps Helen, her hand clasped to her mouth in horror and Sylvie’s face crumples further into tears. ‘Let me see, let me see! The bathroom!’ she whimpers, and the family haul her to her feet.

‘It really was just some kind of flukey accident . . .’ Holding her mother’s arm, Sylvie hurries past him, eyes fixed straight ahead. ‘Do you want me to come with you? Sylvie? Sylv?’ There is no reply and he watches in misery,

as her mother escorts her into the hall and up the stairs to the bathroom.

He listens to the footsteps fade.

And now it’s just Dexter and the Cope menfolk. A primal scene, they glare and glare. Instinctively he feels his hand tighten around his weapon, the tightly rolled-up copy of today’s Daily Telegraph, and says the only thing that he can think of to say.

‘Ouch!’

‘So – do you think I made a good impression?’

Dexter and Sylvie lie in the guest room’s large soft double bed. Sylvie turns to look at him, her face unmoving, the small fine nose throbbing accusingly. She sniffs but says nothing.

‘Do you want me to say I’m sorry again?’ ‘Dexter, it’s fine.’

‘You forgive me?’

‘I forgive you,’ she snaps.

‘And you think they think I’m alright, they don’t think I’m some sort of violent psychopath or something?’

‘I think they think you’re fine. Let’s forget it shall we?’ She turns onto her side, away from him, and turns out her light.

A moment passes. Like a shamed schoolboy, he feels as if he won’t sleep, unless he gets some further reassurance. ‘Sorry for . . . fucking up,’ he pouts. ‘Again!’ She turns once more, and lays one hand fondly on his cheek.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. You were doing fine until you hit

me. They really, really liked you.’

‘And what about you?’ he says, still fishing. She sighs and smiles. ‘I think you’re okay too.’ ‘Any chance of a kiss then?’

‘I can’t. I’ll start bleeding. I’ll make up for it tomorrow.’ She turns away again. Satisfied now, he sinks lower and puts his hands behind his head. The bed is immense and soft and smells of freshly washed linen, and the windows open out onto a still summer night. Stripped of quilts and blankets, they lie beneath a single white cotton sheet, and he can see the wonderful line of her legs and narrow hips, the curve of her long smooth back. Tonight’s sexual potential evaporated with the moment of impact and the possibility of concussion, but still he turns to her and places one hand beneath the sheet and onto her thigh. The skin is cool and smooth.

‘Long drive tomorrow,’ she mumbles. ‘Let’s go to sleep.’

He continues to look at the back of her head, where the long fine hair falls away from the nape of her neck, revealing the darker whorls beneath. You could take a photograph of that, he thinks, it is so beautiful. Call it ‘Texture’. He wonders if he still might tell her that he loves her or, more tentatively, that he ‘thinks he might be in love with her’, which is both more touching and easier to back out of. But clearly this is not the time, not now with the plug of bloody tissue still on her bedside table.

He feels he ought to say something though. Inspired, he kisses her shoulder, and whispers. ‘Well you know what they say—’ He pauses for effect. ‘You always hurt the one

you love!’

This is pretty clever, pretty adorable he thinks, and there’s a silence while he waits, eyebrows raised expectantly, for the implication to sink in.

‘Let’s get some sleep, shall we?’ she says.

Defeated, he lies back and listens to the gentle hum of the A259. Somewhere in the house right now her parents are tearing him to pieces and he realises, appallingly, that he has a sudden desire to laugh. He starts to giggle, then laugh outright, struggling to maintain the silence as his body starts to shake, making the mattress shudder.

‘Are you laughing?’ murmurs Sylvie into her pillow. ‘No!’ says Dexter, screwing his face tight to keep it in,

but the laughter’s coming in waves now and he feels another surge of hysterics starting to build in his stomach. There is a point in the future where even the worst disaster starts to settle into an anecdote, and he can see the potential for a story here. It’s the kind of story that he would like to tell Emma Morley. But he doesn’t know where Emma Morley is, or what she’s doing, hasn’t seen her for more than two years now.

He’ll just have to remember the story. Tell her some other day.

He starts to laugh again.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Third Wave

THURSDAY 15 JULY 1999

Somerset

They have started to arrive. An endless cascade of luxuriously quilted envelopes, thumping onto the doormat. The wedding invitations.

This wasn’t the first wave of weddings. Some of their contemporaries had even got married at University, but in that self-consciously wacky, rag-week way, a let’s-pretend parody of a wedding, like the jokey student ‘dinner parties’ where everyone wore evening dress to eat tuna pasta bake. Student wedding receptions were picnics in the local park, the guests in Oxfam suits and secondhand ballgowns, then onto the pub. In the wedding photos the bride and groom might be seen raising pint glasses to the camera, a fag dangling from the bride’s rouged mouth, and wedding gifts were modest: a really cool compilation tape; a clip-framed photo-montage; a box of candles. Getting married at University was an amusing stunt, an act of benign rebellion, like a tiny tattoo that no-one ever sees or shaving your head for charity.

The second wave, the mid-twenties weddings, still retained a little of that tongue-in-cheek, home-made quality. The receptions took place in community centres