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ing mother； and Simon was in a frenzy； pummelling both of them wherever he could reach—
‘Don’t you fucking dare tell me what to do – don’t you dare； you cowardly little shit； you spotty streak of piss—’
Andrew dropped to his knees to get out of the way； and Simon kicked him in the ribs。 Andrew heard Paul say pathetically； ‘Stop it！’ Simon’s foot swung for Andrew’s ribcage again； but Andrew dodged it； Simon’s toes collided with the brick fireplace and he was suddenly； absurdly； howling in pain。
Andrew scrambled out of the way； Simon was gripping the end of his foot； hopping on the spot and swearing in a high…pitched voice； Ruth had collapsed into the swivel chair； sobbing into her hands。 Andrew got to his feet； he could taste his own blood。
‘Anyone could have talked about that puter；’ he panted； braced for further violence； he felt braver now that it had begun； now that the fight was really on； it was waiting that told on your nerves； watching Simon’s jaw begin to jut； and hearing the urge for violence building in his voice。 ‘You told us a security guard got beaten up。 Anyone could have talked。 It’s not us—’
‘Don’t you – fucking little shit – I’ve broken my fucking toe！’ Simon gasped； falling backwards into an armchair； still nursing his foot。 He seemed to expect sympathy。
Andrew imagined picking up a gun and shooting Simon in the face； watching his features blast apart； his brains spattering the room。
‘And Pauline’s got her fucking period again！’ Simon yelled at Paul； who was trying to contain the blood dripping through his fingers from his nose。 ‘Get off the carpet！ Get off the fucking carpet； you little pansy！’
Paul scuttled out of the room。 Andrew pressed the hem of his T…shirt to his stinging mouth。
‘What about all the cash…in…hand jobs？’ Ruth sobbed； her cheek pink from his punch； tears dripping from her chin。 Andrew hated to see her humiliated and pathetic like this； but he half hated her too for landing herself in it； when any idiot could have seen … ‘It says about the cash…in…hand jobs。 Shirley doesn’t know about them； how could she？ Someone at the printworks has put that on there。 I told you； Si； I told you you shouldn’t do those jobs； they’ve always worried the living daylights out of—’
‘Fucking shut up； you whining cow； you didn’t mind spending the money！’ yelled Simon； his jaw jutting again； and Andrew wanted to roar at his mother to stay silent： she blabbed when any idiot could have told her she should keep quiet； and she kept quiet when she might have done good by speaking out； she never learned； she never saw any of it ing。
Nobody spoke for a minute。 Ruth dabbed at her eyes with the back of her hand and sniffed intermittently。 Simon clutched his toe； his jaw clenched； breathing loudly。 Andrew licked the blood from his stinging lip； which he could feel swelling。
‘This’ll cost me my fucking job；’ said Simon； staring wild…eyed around the room； as if there might be somebody there he had forgotten to hit。 ‘They’re already talking about fucking redundancies。 This’ll be it。 This’ll—’ He slapped the lamp off the end table； but it didn’t break； merely rolled on the floor。 He picked it up； tugged the lead out of the wall socket； raised it over his head and threw it at Andrew； who dodged。
‘Who’s fucking talked？’ Simon yelled； as the lamp base broke apart on the wall。 ‘Someone’s fucking talked！’
‘It’s some bastard at the printworks； isn’t it？’ Andrew shouted back； his lip was thick and throbbing； it felt like a tangerine segment。 ‘D’you think we’d have – d’you think we don’t know how to keep our mouths shut by now？’
It was like trying to read a wild animal。 He could see the muscles working in his father’s jaw； but he could tell that Simon was considering Andrew’s words。
‘When was that put on there？’ he roared at Ruth。 ‘Look at it！ What’s the date on it？’
Still sobbing； she peered at the screen； needing to approach the tip of her nose within two inches of it； now that her glasses were broken。
‘The fifteenth；’ she whispered。
‘Fifteenth … Sunday；’ said Simon。 ‘Sunday； wasn’t it？’
Neither Andrew nor Ruth put him right。 Andrew could not believe his luck； nor did he believe it would hold。
‘Sunday；’ said Simon； ‘so anyone could’ve – my fucking toe；’ he yelled； as he pulled himself up and limped exaggeratedly towards Ruth。 ‘Get out of my way！’
She hastened out of the chair and watched him read the paragraph through again。 He kept snorting like an animal to clear his airways。 Andrew thought that he might be able to garrotte his father as he sat there； if only there was a wire to hand。
‘Someone’s got all this from work；’ said Simon； as if he had just reached this conclusion； and had not heard his wife or son urging the hypothesis on him。 He placed his hands on the keyboard and turned to Andrew。 ‘How do I get rid of it？’
‘What？’
‘You do fucking puting！ How do I get this off here？’
‘You can’t get – you can’t；’ said Andrew。 ‘You’d need to be the administrator。’
‘Make yourself the administrator； then；’ said Simon； jumping up and pointing Andrew into the swivel chair。
‘I can’t make myself the administrator；’ said Andrew。 He was afraid that Simon was working himself up into a second bout of violence。 ‘You need to input the right user name and passwords。’
‘You’re a real fucking waste of space； aren’t you？’
Simon shoved Andrew in the middle of his sternum as he limped past； knocking him back into the mantelpiece。
‘Pass me the phone！’ Simon shouted at his wife； as he sat back down in the armchair。
Ruth took the telephone and carried it the few feet to Simon。 He ripped it out of her hands and punched in a number。
Andrew and Ruth waited in silence as Simon called； first Jim； and then Tommy； the men with whom he had pleted the after…hours jobs at the printworks。 Simon’s fury； his suspicion of his own acplices； was funnelled down the telephone in curt short sentences full of swearwords。
Paul had not returned。 Perhaps he was still trying to staunch his bleeding nose； but more likely he was too scared。 Andrew thought his brothe