Someone Else's Conflict by Alison Layland

turning back to drain the vegetables and put them in serving dishes he’d left to warm with two plates.
    â€˜Only being appreciative.’ He grinned. ‘But I’d better shut up or you’ll have me out in that barn before you can say garrulus glandarius .’
    â€˜I’m not likely to do either of those. What did you say that meant?’
    â€˜Posh name for the jay.’
    She laughed. ‘Suits you.’
    â€˜Garrulous? That’s why I remember it.’
    He reached out and took the plate she handed him, put it down quickly and shook his hands dramatically. ‘Ouch – hot.’
    As she watched him begin to attack the food on his plate – there was no other way to think of it – she wondered just who it was she’d taken in.
    â€˜What were your plans? Before…this.’
    â€˜I don’t usually do plans,’ he said as if that answered everything, before devoting his full attention to his long-awaited square meal.
    She watched Genghis make his cautious way round the edge of the kitchen, drawn through to the living room by the warmth of the fire. He eventually settled in its warm glow, tucking paws and tail in neatly but keeping his head alert, like a ship about to set sail across the rug. Marilyn thought that if the cat could accept the presence of this man in the house, perhaps she should put away her doubts. They ate in a not-uncomfortable silence. Jay wolfed his plate clear in no time and glanced at her, eyebrows raised, hand already on its way to the pot.
    â€˜Help yourself to more.’
    He made short work of a second helping, sitting back satisfied as she finished her first.
    â€˜Thanks for all this, Polly,’ he said as she topped up their wine glasses.
    â€˜Marilyn.’
    â€˜Polly originally comes from Mary, did you know that? Mary – or Marilyn – became Molly became Polly. I think it suits you.’
    â€˜Makes me sound like an old woman.’
    He drank. ‘Age is the product of one thing alone – the time that’s gone by from when you were born to the present. I don’t see that what people call you has anything to do with it.’

Chapter 5
    Vinko walked quickly along litter-strewn streets towards the house he currently called home, hands shoved in his pockets. After a couple of hours in his room catching up on some sleep, he intended to take himself off to the multiplex where he’d slide in for free under cover of a rowdy group, beneath notice of the ticket collectors. He’d often lose himself in the cathartic bombardment of sight and sound offered by an action film. It was especially appealing today. He felt on edge. Angry with himself. Whatever his grandparents’ new address meant, he should have gone to see them. He wasn’t scared of the meeting, of course he wasn’t, merely angry with himself for being over-cautious.
    He rounded a corner and came within view of the house. A silver car he hadn’t seen for months was parked alongside the kerb. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to see it now. Fairly certain he wouldn’t have been noticed, he paused, then made himself continue walking. Didn’t he want answers? He’d done enough putting-off this weekend. The windows were tinted and he peered in vain as he approached, checking involuntarily for the knife in his pocket. His uncle, Mihal Novak, had always been as good to him as he could have expected, but nothing was certain; it paid to be alert. The driver’s window swished down as he approached and an arm beckoned him over to the passenger door. Vinko walked resolutely up to the driver’s side. He wanted answers, but he’d do this on his own terms. Novak greeted him in Croatian and Vinko replied courteously enough in the same language, standing close to the car with his hands still shoved into his pockets.
    â€˜Haven’t seen you for a while,’ Vinko said.
    â€˜Sorry about that. I’ve been busy. I tried