STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense by Derek Thompson Page A

through on atmosphere alone. Thanks to Private Eye and a problem with the sandwiches, he lasted a full forty-five minutes.
    And finally, on to the main event: the Art Gallery, along The Headrow. Portraits fascinated him; the way they captured something of the inner person and revealed it forever. He’d tried to paint Miranda once — it was rubbish, of course. But the actual process, the way he’d been able to study her for hours and to see how the light changed her features — well, it was almost a religious experience. She hadn’t taken the piss either, not even when he’d said he wanted to be a professional photographer one day.
    He checked his watch — time to go — and skirted around a gaggle of college girls outside, slowly smoking themselves to death. He made the station in plenty of time, unlike the delayed Scarborough train.
    * * *
    At York, he saw his mother standing by the car, as he exited, looking out for him. She waved enthusiastically and he reciprocated with a slow hand. If he’d been any more non-committal he could have doubled as a stunt pope. His father remained in the driving seat, hands on the wheel.
    After the obligatory greetings they joined the Friday traffic, slipping across the Lendal Bridge and along the A64 before it clogged up for the evening.
    “How’s sis?”
    “Now, Pat’ll be coming over later,” his mother changed the subject without drawing breath. “She said to say that Gordon sends his apologies. He’s been working long hours and doesn’t think he’d be at his best.”
    Thomas studied the veins on the back of his hand. “How are they getting along these days?”
    His father let out a deep sigh, but his mother kept to the script. “He moved out for a few days last month — said he needed a bit of room to himself. He’s under a lot of pressure, you know.” She said it earnestly, as if to convince all three of them.
    Yeah, right . The only pressure Gordon was likely to feel was in his elbows, when he was on top of some tart in Whitby. “Why didn’t anyone tell me Pat was having difficulties?”
    Thomas’s father half-turned. “Because you’re never around — not for this family, anyway.”
    And there it was: gloves off, round one.
    “Come on James, let’s not start.”
    Father and son stared at each other through the mirror. No one spoke again.
    * * *
    It was hard to get too worked up about seeing the house, which had been his second childhood home, and he’d left in his teens. But it still held ghosts. He rolled his eyes at the memory of that final-straw row with his dad, over ‘drinking and backchat.’ Maybe one drinker was all the house could bear.
    As soon as they got inside, his mother rushed straight into the kitchen to put the kettle on. It was like he’d never been away. Tea, the great panacea for fractured families, now with added digestives.
    Thomas and his father sat in the parlour glancing in the general vicinity of each other. Stalemate. Thomas knew his father would crack first; a childish power play, but one he excelled at. All it took was time, and he could wait.
    “So, ’ow’s life in London?” his father relented.
    “It’s okay.” Hardly the response of the year, but anything too enthusiastic or dismissive would invite further discussion. And we wouldn’t want to use up all that sparkling banter on the first day, now would we?
    After tea, his father tried again. Rugby — Malton & Norton’s season compared with York then football — Leeds United getting robbed again in the final minutes. Thomas didn’t bother to remind him that he’d lost interest in sport years ago, not counting the odd West Ham game.
    Everything had settled by the time Pat’s key rattled in the door. “It’s only me.” It sounded like she’d brought the little ones as well.
    Thomas tried to recall when he’d last seen them and reached into his pocket for some guilt money.
    “There he is!” Pat pushed the door to, beaming as if she’d just won the