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

lottery. He eased out of the chair and opened his arms. She squeezed against him, the way a limpet fights against the tide. “It’s really good to see you,” she whispered, sniffing back tears.
    Gordon. That little shit. One of these days he’d get through to him, using Gordon’s head for Morse code.
    The kids kept their distance at first, hardly surprising as he rarely saw them. All it took was a few words of encouragement from Pat and a few silly noises from him. Pound coins helped as well.
    “I thought we could all have tea together,” Pat suggested. “Me and Thomas could walk down to the chippie.”
    He nodded, seduced by the thought of getting out of the house. Fish & chips — a feast for the prodigal son.
    “Here,” his father held out some notes, “If you eat at my table, you’re my guests.”
    And that about summed it up for Thomas; he was a guest. As soon as they shut the door behind them, leaving the kids hammering on the old piano, Thomas blew out a breath like an over-inflated balloon.
    Pat laughed and grabbed his arm, winching him in close. “I have missed you though. You should come up more often.”
    “So I hear.”
    She looked away and pulled him towards the gate, still arm in arm. There had always been an easy peace between them, despite their differences. Pat had moved four streets away, settled down and continued the family line. Whereas Thomas, he’d abandoned them all, changed his accent and become a stranger. Pat never questioned that — she understood his reasons.
    She waited until they were stuck in the queue outside the fish & chip shop. “How’s Miranda?”
    “Still single,” he paused, reading between the lines. “As am I.”
    She shook her head faintly, as if she didn’t believe any of it; sisters — too clever by half.
    He waited until she’d paid for everything and stopped her at the door. “I’ll pay for this lot. Give Dad his change, no need for him to know. I’m sure Mam can use a little extra.”
    She gave him a playful punch and he doubled up in mock agony. “You always were a silly beggar! Come on, I’m famished.”
    * * *
    It was a typical family scene, three generations eating together; adults with plates on knees, but children up at the table; a bottle of ketchup passed around and hot, sweet tea to wash it all down. Except, for Thomas, it was as alien now as that terrible weekend he’d shared with Christine Gerrard and her parents. It wasn’t that Pickering was smaller — no, it grew bigger with each infrequent visit. But the house, rooms and inhabitants alike — they all seemed narrower.
    He walked Pat and the children home afterwards, doing a stint as Uncle Piggy-back. He didn’t go inside though, not if Gordon might be around. It was Pat’s life after all, and lamping someone rarely solved anything. As he wandered back the long way home, a police car blared in the distance. He smiled broadly for the first time that day; he’d make time to see Ajit before Monday.
    Ajit was the only school friend he’d bothered to stay in touch with. They had two things in common: a love of photography and a secret they’d never discussed.
    No one cared much when Ajit joined the class in 1988, except the throwbacks — and every school had them. It was racism all right, but with a twist. It wasn’t the fact that Ajit was Asian, just that he’d come from Lancashire. Or so they said. School life was a proving ground for every would-be alpha-male fuckwit. Thomas had experienced a little of that himself when they moved to Pickering, after Maggie Thatcher broke the miners in two. But any son of a miner was hailed as a hero, even though all he’d done was stand in the street in York, collecting money for them.
    Day after day, Thomas had watched Ajit run the gauntlet; watched as the gang formed into a leader and four lieutenants. Thomas knew it wasn’t his fight. He and Ajit were both members of Photography Club and shared a few laughs, but that was about it. Still,