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of inauthenticity。
On the Facebook page that Fats curated with a care he devoted to almost nothing else； he had highlighted a quotation he had found on his parents’ bookshelves：
I do not want believers； I think I am too malicious to believe in myself … I have a terrible fear I shall one day be pronounced holy … I do not want to be a saint； rather even a buffoon … perhaps I am a buffoon …
Andrew liked it very much； and Fats liked how impressed he was。
In the time it took him to pass the bookmaker’s – mere seconds – Fats’ thoughts lit on his father’s dead friend； Barry Fairbrother。 Three long loping strides past the racehorses printed on posters behind the grubby glass； and Fats saw Barry’s joking； bearded face； and heard Cubby’s booming excuse of a laugh； which had often rung out almost before Barry had made one of his feeble jokes； in the mere excitement of his presence。 Fats did not wish to examine these memories any further； he did not interrogate himself on the reasons for his instinctive inner flinch； he did not ask himself whether the dead man had been authentic or inauthentic； he dismissed the idea of Barry Fairbrother； and his father’s ludicrous distress； and pressed on。
Fats was curiously joyless these days； even though he made everybody else laugh as much as ever。 His quest to rid himself of restrictive morality was an attempt to regain something he was sure had been stifled in him； something that he had lost as he had left childhood。 What Fats wanted to recover was a kind of innocence； and the route he had chosen back to it was through all the things that were supposed to be bad for you； but which； paradoxically； seemed to Fats to be the one true way to authenticity； to a kind of purity。 It was curious how often everything was back to front； the inverse of what they told you； Fats was starting to think that if you flipped every bit of received wisdom on its head you would have the truth。 He wanted to journey through dark labyrinths and wrestle with the strangeness that lurked within； he wanted to crack open piety and expose hypocrisy； he wanted to break taboos and squeeze wisdom from their bloody hearts； he wanted to achieve a state of amoral grace； and be baptized backwards into ignorance and simplicity。
And so he decided to break one of the few school rules he had not yet contravened； and walked away； into the Fields。 It was not merely that the crude pulse of reality seemed nearer here than in any other place he knew； he also had a vague hope of stumbling across certain notorious people about whom he was curious； and； though he barely acknowledged it to himself； because it was one of the few yearnings for which he did not have words； he sought an open door； and a dawning recognition； and a wele to a home he did not know he had。
Moving past the putty…coloured houses on foot； rather than in his mother’s car； he noticed that many of them were free of graffiti and debris； and that some imitated （as he saw it） the gentility of Pagford； with curtains and ornaments on the windowsills。 These details were less readily apparent from a moving vehicle； where Fats’ eye was irresistibly drawn from boarded window to debris…strewn lawn。 The neater houses held no interest for Fats。 What drew him on were the places where chaos or lawlessness was in evidence； even if only of the puerile spray…canned variety。
Somewhere near here （he did not know exactly where） lived Dane Tully。 Tully’s family was infamous。 His two older brothers and his father spent a lot of time in prison。 There was a rumour that the last time Dane had had a fight （with a nieen…year…old； so the story went； from the Cantermill Estate）； his father had escorted him to the rendezvous； and had stayed to fight Dane’s opponent’s older brothers。 Tully had turned up at school with his face cut； his lip swollen and his eye blacked。 Everyone agreed that he had put in one of his infrequent appearances simply to show off his injuries。
Fats was quite sure that he would have played it differently。 To care what anyone else thought of your smashed face was inauthentic。 Fats would have liked to fight； and then to go about his normal life； and if anyone knew it would be because they had glimpsed him by chance。
Fats had never been hit； despite offering increasing provocation。 He thought； often these days； about how it would feel to get into a fight。 He suspected that the state of authenticity he sought would include violence； or； at least； would not preclude violence。 To be prepared to hit； and to take a hit； seemed to him to be a form of courage to which he ought to aspire。 He had never needed his fists： his tongue had sufficed； but the emergent Fats was starting to despise his own articulacy and to admire authentic brutality。 The matter of knives； Fats debated with himself more gingerly。 To buy a blade now； and let it be known he was carrying it； would be an act of crashing inauthenticity； a pitiful aping of the likes of Dane Tully； Fats’ insides crawled at the thought of it。 If ever the time came when he needed to carry a knife； that would be different。 Fats did not rule out the possibility that such a time would e； though he admitted to himself that the idea was frightening。 Fats was scared of things that pierced flesh； of needles and blades。 He had been the only one to faint when they had had their meningitis vaccinations back at St Thomas’s。 One of the few ways that Andrew had found to dispose Fats was to unsheath his EpiPen around him； the adrenalin…filled needle that Andrew was supposed to carry with him at all times because of his dangerous nut allergy。 It made Fats feel sick when Andrew brandished it at him or pretended to jab him with it。
Wandering without any particular destination； Fats caught sight of the sign to Foley Road。 That was where Krystal Weedon lived。 He was unsure whether she was in school today； and it was not his intention to make her think that he had e looking for her。
They had an agreement to meet on Friday evening。 Fats had told his parents that he was going to Andrew’s because they were collaborating on an English project。 Krystal seemed to understand what they were going to do； she seemed up for