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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　it。　She　had　so　far　allowed　him　to　insert　two　fingers　inside　her；　hot　and　firm　and　slippery；　he　had　unhooked　her　bra　and　been　permitted　to　place　his　hands　on　her　warm；　heavy　breasts。　He　had　sought　her　out　deliberately　at　the　Christmas　disco；　led　her　out　of　the　hall　under　Andrew’s　and　the　others’　incredulous　gazes；　round　the　back　of　the　drama　hall。　She　had　seemed　quite　as　surprised　as　anybody　else；　but　had　offered；　as　he　had　hoped　and　expected；　virtually　no　resistance。　His　targeting　of　Krystal　had　been　a　deliberate　act；　and　he　had　had　his　cool　and　brazen　retort　ready；　when　it　had　e　to　facing　down　his　mates’　jeers　and　taunts。

‘If　you　want　chips；　you　don’t　go　to　a　fucking　salad　bar。’

He　had　thought　out　that　analogy　in　advance；　but　he　had　still　had　to　spell　it　out　for　them。

‘You　boys　keep　wanking。　I　want　a　shag。’

That　had　wiped　the　smiles　off　their　faces。　He　could　tell　that　all　of　them；　Andrew　included；　were　forced　to　choke　down　their　jeers　at　his　choice；　in　admiration　of　his　unabashed　pursuit　of　the　one；　the　only　true　goal。　Fats　had　undoubtedly　chosen　the　most　direct　route　to　get　there；　none　of　them　could　argue　with　his　mon…sense　practicality；　and　Fats　could　tell　that　every　single　one　of　them　was　asking　himself　why　he　had　not　had　the　guts　to　consider　this　means　to　a　most　satisfactory　end。

‘Do　me　a　favour；　and　don’t　mention　this　to　my　mother；　all　right？’　Fats　had　muttered　to　Krystal；　ing　up　for　air　in　between　long；　wet　explorations　of　each　other’s　mouths；　while　his　thumbs　had　rubbed　backwards　and　forwards　over　her　nipples。

She　had　half　sniggered；　then　kissed　him　with　more　aggression。　She　had　not　asked　him　why　he　had　picked　her；　had　not　asked　him　anything　really；　she　seemed；　like　him；　to　be　pleased　by　the　reactions　of　their　entirely　separate　tribes；　to　glory　in　the　watchers’　confusion；　even　in　his　friends’　pantomime　of　disgust。　He　and　Krystal　had　barely　spoken　to　each　other　during　three　further　bouts　of　carnal　exploration　and　experimentation。　Fats　had　engineered　all　of　them；　but　she　had　made　herself　more　readily　available　than　usual；　choosing　to　hang　about　in　places　he　might　find　her　easily。　Friday　night　was　the　first　time　they　would　meet　by　pre…arrangement。　He　had　bought　condoms。

The　prospect　of　finally　going　all　the　way　had　something　to　do　with　him　truanting　today　and　ing　to　the　Fields；　although　he　had　not　thought　of　Krystal　herself　（as　opposed　to　her　splendid　breasts　and　that　miraculously　unguarded　vagina）　until　he　saw　the　name　of　her　street。

Fats　doubled　back；　lighting　another　cigarette。　Something　about　seeing　the　name　of　Foley　Road　had　given　him　a　strange　sense　that　his　timing　was　wrong。　The　Fields　today　were　banal　and　inscrutable；　and　that　which　he　sought；　the　thing　he　hoped　to　recognize　when　he　found　it；　was　curled　up　somewhere；　out　of　sight。　And　so　he　walked　back　to　school。

IV
Nobody　was　answering　their　telephone。　Back　in　the　Child　Protection　team’s　room；　Kay　had　been　punching　in　numbers　on　and　off　for　nearly　two　hours；　leaving　messages；　asking　everyone　to　call　her　back：　the　Weedons’　health　visitor；　their　family　doctor；　the　Cantermill　Nursery　and　the　Bellchapel　Addiction　Clinic。　Terri　Weedon’s　file　lay　open　on　the　desk　in　front　of　her；　bulging　and　battered。

‘Using　again；　is　she？’　said　Alex；　one　of　the　women　with　whom　Kay　shared　an　office。　‘Bellchapel’ll　kick　her　out　for　good　this　time。　She　claims　she’s　terrified　Robbie’ll　be　taken　off　her；　but　she　can’t　keep　off　the　smack。’

‘It’s　the　third　time　she’s　been　through　Bellchapel；’　said　Una。

On　the　basis　of　what　she　had　seen　that　afternoon；　Kay　thought　the　time　was　right　for　a　case　review；　to　pull　together　those　professionals　who　shared　responsibility　for　individual　fragments　of　Terri　Weedon’s　life。　She　continued　to　press　redial　between　dealing　with　other　work；　while　in　the　corner　of　the　office　their　own　telephone　rang　repeatedly　and　clicked　immediately　onto　the　answering　machine。　The　Child　Protection　team’s　room　was　cramped　and　cluttered；　and　it　smelt　of　spoilt　milk；　because　Alex　and　Una　had　a　habit　of　emptying　the　dregs　of　their　coffee　cups　into　the　pot　of　a　depressed…looking　yucca　plant　in　the　corner。

Mattie’s　most　recent　notes　were　untidy　and　chaotic；　peppered　with　crossings　out；　misdated　and　partial。　Several　key　documents　were　missing　from　the　file；　including　a　letter　sent　by　the　addiction　clinic　a　fortnight　previously。　It　was　quicker　to　ask　Alex　and　Una　for　information。

‘Last　case　review　woulda　been　…’　said　Alex；　frowning　at　the　yucca　plant；　‘over　a　year　ago；　I　reckon。’

‘And　they　thought　Robbie　was　OK　to　stay　with　her　then；　obviously；’　said　Kay；　the　receiver　pressed　between　ear　and　shoulder　as　she　tried　and　failed　to　find　the　notes　of　the　review　in　the　bulging　folder。

‘It　wasn’t　a　case　of　him　staying　with　her；　it　was　whether　he　was　going　to　go　back　to　her　or　not。　He　was　put　out　to　a　foster　mother；　because　Terri　was　beaten　up　by　a　client　and　ended　up　in　hospital。　She　got　clean；　got　out；　and　was　mad　to　get　Robbie　back。　She　went　back　on　the　Bellchapel　programme；　she　was　off　the　game　and　makin’　a　proper　effort。　Her　mother　was　saying　she’d　help。　So　she　got　him　home　and　a　few　months　later　she’d　started　shooting　up　again。’

‘It’s　not　Terri’s　mother　who　helps；　though；　is　it？’　said　Kay；　whose　head　was　starting　to　ache；　as　she　tried　to　decipher　Mattie’s　big；　untidy　writing。　‘It’s　her　grandmother；　the　kids’　great…grandmother。　So　she　must　be　knocking　on；　and　Terri　said　something　about　her　being　ill；　this　morning。　If　Terri’s　the　only　carer　now　…’

‘The　daughter’s　sixteen；’　said　Una。　‘She　mostly　takes　care　of　Robbie。’

‘Well；　she’s　not　doing　a　great　job；’　said　Kay。　‘He　was　in　a　pretty　bad　state　when　I　got　there　this　morning。’

But　she　had　seen　far　worse：　welts　and　sores；　gashes　and　burns；　tar…black　bruises；　scabies　and　nits；　babies　lying　on　carpets　covered　in　dog　shit；　kids　crawling　on　broken　bones；　and　once　（she　dreamed　of　it；　still）；　a　child　who　had　been　locked　in　a　cupboard　for　five　days　by　his　psychotic　stepfather。　That　one　had　made　the　national　news。　The　most　immed