In the Dark by Mark Billingham

legs against the wooden floor. Clive moved quickly for a big man: he was halfway out of the door before the brick had crashed into the base of the bar.
    Paul stood up and walked to the doorway to watch. He saw Clive get hold of the kid’s jacket as the kid tried to dodge between parked cars.
    The man at the table picked a piece of glass off the plastic in front of him. ‘What can you do?’
    Paul continued to watch as Clive pushed the kid up against a wall on the other side of the road, pressed his face into the grey brick and talked, close to his ear.
    â€˜I’m sorry, Paul.’ The man stood up from the table and smoothed down his sweater. ‘I can’t be somebody else.’ He took a few steps in Paul’s direction. ‘ You can. You can make other people think you’re somebody else. You have that gift. It’s not me, though.’
    Across the road, Clive pushed the kid slowly down to his knees, maintaining the pressure on the back of the head so that the face scraped every inch of brick as it went.
    Paul could see the red stain from forty feet away.
    â€˜Lunch on me next time, then.’ The man joined Paul at the doorway. ‘What about a bit of dim sum, up west? I know you like all that.’
    Paul said that sounded good, and nodded towards the street. ‘I think you’ve just lost a potential regular, Frank.’
    When Paul left, the kid who had thrown the brick was sitting on the pavement spitting out sticky strings of blood and moaning. Feeling around inside his mouth. He watched Paul unlock the car and stood up; asked if he could have a lift to the hospital.
    Paul tossed his jacket into the car. ‘I saw what happened,’ he said. ‘He didn’t touch your fucking legs.’

SIX
    Helen had been in her pyjamas and dressing gown since she’d got back from the health centre. She’d padded from room to room tidying up, had made a desultory effort to reorganise the kitchen cupboards and then given up. Decided she’d be far happier trying to eat her own body weight in crisps and Dairy Milk, letting the hand that worked the TV remote get all the exercise.
    She half-watched Deal or No Deal , losing interest when the big-money boxes were opened, and thinking about that afternoon’s visit to the doctor.
    Everything was ticking along very nicely, apparently . . .
    The head was not engaged as yet, but that could happen any time from thirty-six weeks onwards, so there was nothing to worry about on that score. The baby’s weight was almost exactly where it should be. Tick. Her blood pressure was fine, he said. Tick again, well done. She nodded as the doctor rattled off the figures and wondered about his : he looked a little red-faced and she couldn’t help wondering if he had a bottle of something in a desk drawer. The baby’s lungs were almost fully developed now, he said, taking a good-sized breath as if to demonstrate what it was that lungs did. And he could survive unaided if need be, the clever little sod. In fact, all he would be doing in Planet Womb from this point on was lying about and putting on weight.
    Helen reached across and took a second slice of cheese on toast from the tray next to her. The least she could do was pitch in.
    All ticking along very nicely then, until the doctor had asked how she was. Until he took off his little round glasses, turned away from his computer screen and asked her that.
    â€˜In yourself ,’ he’d said.
    She could tell by the look on his face that he’d seen tears at this point in proceedings plenty of times before. That he was putting hers down to the hormone fairy overstaying her welcome. He proffered the box of tissues and asked if there was anyone she’d like to talk to. She shook her head and blew her nose, wondering how he’d react if she looked up and said, ‘I don’t suppose you could get my boyfriend in here, could you? There’s plenty we should be