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‘Yeah.’

‘Fucking hot.’

‘You’re not kidding.’ Rhys leaned against the wall beside him, ran a hand through his hair.

They didn’t say anything, made no formal agreement, but both in unison turned to watch Tony. He was standing alone. Not standing, pacing. A steady tromp, backwards and forwards. Aden thought of the tigers at the zoo, marking out the steps of their cage, enraged by their captivity. Tony filled up the dead space – the one that had formed between the shooters and the others. He walked with his shoulders thrown back, a strut like he had just walked off a film set. But every now and again his gaze would trickle back to the knotted men and women. Aden watched him: three long strides, a turn, three long strides. Another look. Was he looking to see if they were watching him, seduced by his own hero mythology? Or was he looking, waiting for them to call him in – the isolation of being different finally beginning to wear him down?

Aden’s glance shifted towards the other firearms officers. The old-timers were listening to Kate tell some story about her dog, the extortionate vet bills. The newcomers, they would glance over occasionally, then quickly look back down, cowed by the shooters in their midst. Aden shook his head, would have laughed if it wasn’t so fucking absurd. Too cool for one group, too lame for the other. Poor Tony.

‘So, you see Charlie this morning?’ asked Rhys.

Aden nodded. Resolutely not looking at his partner. ‘Yup. Swimming.’

He had got there early. Had changed and then hung out at the side of the pool. Waiting. Charlie had shown up on time, exactly when she had said she was going to be there, had looked at him, a quizzical frown, wondering what the hell he was doing wandering back and forth in his swimming trunks. You okay? Yeah, just, ah . . . waiting for you. Oh. Okay. They had stood there for a moment, and even though it was the same pool they used every day, with the same people and the same sounds, everything was different. Aden had opened his mouth. Had no idea what he was going to say, just knew that there were words piling up and they had to come out or he would lose his mind. But there was a splash, someone misjudging a tumble-turn, and it pulled Charlie’s attention away, and then the moment was gone. Now they were just two people standing at the side of a pool, wearing very little. Charlie had turned, pulling her goggles on as she went. Come on then. Race you!

Iestyn was done with the targets now, walking back down the range towards them with long, even strides.

‘All right, let’s get going. We’ll have an eight-round shoot from twenty yards. Glocks first, if you please. We’ve got a full house today, so let’s do it five people at a time. First five, line up.’ He turned towards Aden, gestured with his head. ‘Ade? A second, please.’

Rhys took the hint, pushed himself away from the wall to join the others waiting to shoot.

‘You, ah . . . you thought any more about it?’ The sergeant wasn’t looking at him, had turned, folded his arms across his thick chest and was staring down-range, where the first five were finding their positions.

‘It?’

‘The FTU. Only closing date’s coming up.’

‘Yeah, I . . . I’m still thinking.’

‘Think fast,’ said Iestyn. ‘This is a good opportunity for you. I’d like to see you on that team.’

‘Okay. Sarge? The Mount Pleasant Hospital thing . . .’

‘Yeah.’ Iestyn shook his head. ‘Looks like we’ll be pulling back on that one. No sightings since Tuesday. Powers that be are going to reduce firearms patrols. Just don’t have the manpower to hang about when there’s no sign of trouble.’

Aden felt his stomach flip. ‘Well, I mean, I’m a little concerned – you know, what with the Lowe boy being there. And, ah . . . his father, Steve Lowe. You know that he has access to weapons, right? That Dylan’s grandfather has a firearms licence for a shotgun.’

The sergeant gave him a long look. ‘Why the hell would Steve Lowe want to go after his own kid? Do you have any reason to think he was actually the gunman?’

Aden hung in indecision. He couldn’t repeat what Carla had said, because technically he was never there.

‘Yeah,’ said Iestyn. ‘That’s what I thought. Look, I don’t like the guy either, but without evidence . . . Besides, don’t you think we’re unpopular enough with the Lowes right now? If there’s anything concrete we’ll take another look, but for now I’d say put it out of your head. There’s still plenty of security at the hospital, we’ll still be doing patrols for the time being, just the numbers of them reduced is all. Anyway,’ he clapped Aden on the shoulder, ‘let me know about the FTU, okay?’ He turned, striding away.

Tony had pushed his way through the throng, had taken the centre spot. Was standing there now, with wide legs. Waiting. Rhys beside him, looking tired, like he hadn’t slept again. Aden had wondered if he should ask Imogen about Steve Lowe, what he was doing seeing her. Perhaps she would know more, would recognise what it seemed that only Aden saw: that Steve was capable of killing his own son. But Imogen wouldn’t talk to him about it. Stupid. Of course she wouldn’t – that was her job. Aden had an image of Steve Lowe sitting on her sofa, weeping into his tattooed knuckles. He shook his head, dislodging the image, because somehow that picture was worse than the other one, the one where Carla Lowe wept over the inert figure of her son. Then, of course, he was thinking about Carla again, and didn’t want to do that, either. So he didn’t see a gun in the boy’s hand, or thought he didn’t – because who could tell how genuine these memories were, when everyone knew how easy it was for memories to be corrupted? It could have been in his belt or hidden, or anything.

‘Ear-defenders on. Ready. Take aim. Fire.’

The sounds bounced around the range, the dull echo of them carrying through the thick ear-defenders, boom, boom, boom.

Aden tried to concentrate on the shooting. Tried not to think about Steve Lowe or Carla Lowe or Charlie. Then the yawning silence after the sound.

‘All clear? Right, holster your weapons. Let’s go.’

They walked down towards the butts, the clean paper targets now pockmarked with bullet holes grouped in the torso. Tony striding towards his target, glancing left and right to see if anyone else was looking. Rhys slower, dragging behind. Iestyn, his hands on his hips, scanned the targets.

‘Nice grouping there, Tone.’ He ran his finger across the paper figure. The bullet holes were grouped in the torso, one sitting in the shoulder. ‘One wild one, but the rest are lovely.’

Tony let loose a bark of laughter. ‘Yeah, looks just like that kid did, when I shot him.’

Aden felt a thrill of fury. The air chilled, plummeting a dozen degrees in a microsecond. The firearms officers – the new, the old – looking at one another, so many silent conversations that it felt like they were screaming. Rhys’s face hardened, his arms folding.

‘All right, Tone.’ The sergeant shifted, uncomfortable; you could see that he was trying to work out the best way to deal with this.

Tony shrugged. ‘Just sayin’.’

Aden could feel it, the rage building up. How the fuck was it so easy for him? How could Tony brush it off? This fucking wanker, who had pulled the trigger when Aden had failed, and now could laugh about the kid lying senseless in a hospital bed. Could feel Rhys beside him, vibrating. How was it that they could feel it, could see that night over and over again, so that they couldn’t sleep, could barely eat, and this prick could joke about it?

‘Tony. Shut the fuck up, there’s a good boy,’ Aden said.

They had all turned now, were looking at him, from him back to Tony, like it was some kind of tennis match. Aden stared at Tony as the expressions billowed across his face.

‘Right, that’s enough. Back up to twenty yards, please. Aden, grab a spot.’ Iestyn held his arms out, steering them like a sheepdog with a flock.

‘Yeah,’ Tony muttered, ‘if you think you can actually pull the fucking trigger this time.’

There was a low, rippling breath. Everyone looking at Aden, waiting.

Aden walked steadily back to his position, waited for the others to join him, could feel the heat of their stares on his face. Waited for the sergeant to call the shoot, pulled his gun out, landed eight rounds – each and every one perfect within the centre of the torso – holstered his gun.

Knew that Tony was watching him; that he was waiting too, to see how far he could push Aden.

Waited until the ear-defenders were off. Turned to face him. ‘Tell me something, Tone,’ said Aden.

‘What’s that?’ Tony was spoiling for a fight; you could see it in him, the way his feet were set wide so that he had balance, the way his fingers kept balling up, like they were itching to punch something.

‘Just how small is your dick? The way I see it, must be pretty damn tiny, the way you jerk off over that gun.’ That was it, the moment. Aden had known it would be, had seen it coming, but had sallied forward anyway, because he was on fire and the thoughts and the anger and all the other shit just wouldn’t go away, and for once it felt good to let them out. He watched as Tony’s face went slack, as he processed the words and then the blaze of light. Aden saw his shoulder pull back, knew that Tony was going to hit him, waited, feeling the sweet relief of pain before the punch ever lands.

But instead Tony’s hand flew to his holster. He pulled out his gun.

Aden stared down the barrel of the Glock.

Time had ceased. There was no sound. All that there was in the world now was this small black hole, sucking everything else into it.

He should have asked Charlie out.

Then it quivered, a small movement, but it was enough to break the spell. Sound leaked back in, the sergeant bellowing, ‘Holster that weapon. Holster that weapon, now.’ Tony’s face, split with fear as he realised just what it was he had done. Then the gun dropping away, hitting the floor with a clang, and Aden wincing, a reaction that came too late to the party. His gaze settling on Tony, and Tony’s gaze on him, and then a movement that he didn’t see fast enough to react to – Tony’s fist flying from nowhere and connecting with his eye socket in an explosion of pain.

TRAFFIC WAS THICK,
cars lining bumper-to-bumper along the sea-front road. Imogen sat, the windows rolled down, waited as an uneasy driver attempted a U-turn in the clogged roadway before her. A tourist, no doubt. It was always busy in Mumbles at this time of year, people flooding to the beaches. She leaned her head back, breathed in the salt air. Tried to stop her brain from working.

She had wandered through today’s sessions, had done her best to listen to her clients. But she couldn’t shake off the look on Mara’s face, the way her eyes slid, down and away. Imogen could always tell when her sister was lying. It had hung over her that day, the feeling that prickled the air like there was an electrical charge in it, a thunderstorm about to break. The knowledge that there was something there, something that neither one of them was saying. The fear of what that might be.

A green light, a swell of relief from the idling cars and, finally, movement. Imogen flicked her indicator on, pulling the car into a hard right up the steep hill.

Mara had always drawn people to her. Not just men, women too. Their mother always said that Mara had an electric personality, that people just seemed to want to be around her. There were always knots of people fighting for her attention.

Wasn’t that how Imogen had met Dave? Dave had been one of Mara’s friends, to begin with, part of a knot of admirers who seemed to follow in her wake wherever she would go. And, of course, wherever she went, there too was Imogen. Mara had laughed at Dave. He’s such a geek. He’s nice enough, I suppose, but really. She had pulled a face, and Imogen had laughed at her, trying to ignore the splash of guilt. He’s nothing to look at, is he?

Imogen would wonder, in her darker moments, if this was where it had been born. If she had fallen for Dave because he, too, sat in her sister’s shadow, invisible.

She climbed slowly through dense traffic, the evening sun at her back. People wandered into the roadway; it seemed like for them there was no segregation: pavement, road, all the same. The Renault in front honked its horn, a loud angry parp, then a roar as the accelerator raced. It always amazed her the way in which people seemed surprised by the crowds, the density of it all, as if they believed they were the only ones who would ever have thought to come here to this place, where the village spilled down into the sea. She took a right, creeping around a blind bend.

Two years. Two years of being invisible, of Dave not seeing her as anything other than her sister’s matching pair. And then the second-year ball. It would be a big event, everyone had said. White tents littering the field, wooden boardwalks that tried – and failed – to hide the mud that squeezed its way through the slats, seeping into hemlines, coating the soles of the unlikely sandals for which she had paid far too much. Some band was playing, a thrumming, thundering beat; a scraggly, indie-looking conglomerate that everyone claimed to be fans of, but no one seemed to know. Imogen had bought a new dress. Dave would be there. They would all be there. And, in the quiet, dark corners of her mind, Imogen had hoped that tonight he would notice her. She had never admitted this to Mara, and afterwards she would take solace in this. That her sister couldn’t have been expected to know. Not
know
-know. Not really. Imogen had let her daydreams idle, let conversation spill onto other things the way it so inevitably did with Mara, so that, in the end, her feelings for Dave could be called a secret. And you can’t criticise someone for not knowing your secrets, can you?

It had been loud and sticky, all thumping bass and bumping bodies, and in the dark gloom of the tent a smell of must and mud, and she had wondered why she had gone to so much effort. Just what the point had been. Dave had arrived, a little after ten, his gaze bleary, stance unsteady. Hadn’t looked at her. Which shouldn’t have surprised her. Not really. She had drunk more than she should have, had drowned her sorrows in the cut-price, cut-quality tequila, so that soon her head was swirling, her footsteps awkward and uneven. Hadn’t really thought to look for Mara. Not for a while. She had said that she had her eye on some Scottish lad, the captain of the fencing team. Imogen had drunk, slowly, steadily, and hadn’t even stopped to ask herself where her sister was.