Frederick put his flabby cheeked face around the door.  ''ere Pat.  She's in again.'
 Patricia lifted the lid on a bubbling saucepan and squinted at the contents.  'Who's in?'
 'You know, that bird who fancies Matt.'
 Patricia hurried to the door, her large body wobbling at the unaccustomed velocity.  'Who does she think she is, dressed up to the nines?  What does she think she is, sixteen or summink?'
 'She's a bit of alright.  I wouldn't say no.'
 'Oh, wouldn't you Frederick       ?
 'That is, my petal, if I didn't already have the best looking woman in London.  Oh, 'ere we go, Matt's seen her.'
 Matthew wiped his hands on a threadbare tea towel and scanned the bar for any customers that were waiting.  He smiled as he saw her, her eyebrows raised just enough to signal her interest.
 'Hello,' he said smoothly.  'What can I get you?'
 'Gin, please.'
 'Anything in it?'
 'No.  Thanks.'
 He placed her glass on the drainer and held out his hand for payment.  Perhaps she thought he was going to buy the drink for her but she looked at his hand in surprise.  She coloured beneath her rouge and delved into her handbag for her purse.  He waited, amused.  She pulled out the money and placed it on his palm.  He made a show of counting it and turned away.
 'You're that copper, aren't you?' she called out.
 He turned his head.  'Yes.  I used to be.'
 'I thought so.  Is this what you do now?'
 'The pub belongs to my sister and her husband.  I'm staying here.  Until I can find somewhere.'
 'I read about you in the paper,' she lowered her voice as he stepped nearer.
 'And?'
 'I thought it was rotten, you getting chucked out of the force.'
 'So did I.'
 'I expect you find it a bit difficult now, not being a copper or a crook.'
 'That's an understatement.'
 'Personally, I always liked coppers.'
 'Really?'
 'I always feel safe with a copper.'
 'Known many, have you?'
 Her eyes narrowed, wondering just what he meant by that remark.  A pause, then she smiled, showing her teeth.  'You're a one, aren't you?  And so handsome.  Bet you have all the girls round you.'
 His blue eyes studied her, neither confirming nor denying.
 'Got a light, Mr Stannard?' she asked when he began to wipe the bartop.
 He reached beneath the counter for a box of matches.  He snapped the stick along the side of the box and held it before her.  She placed a cigarette in her mouth and nudged the tip into the flame, cupping both hands around his.  She looked up at him as she drew a breath.
 Oh yeah, Matthew thought, I know that look.  Knew it, and knew what it meant.
 'I like coppers.'
 He threw the burnt match in an ashtray.  'You already said that.'
 'I like you.'
 He leaned his elbows on the bar.  'I like you.'
 'Well then -'
 'What I don't like though, er -'
 'Marion,' she supplied
 'What I don't like Marion, is that ring on your finger.'  He pointed at the third finger on her left hand, where slightly yellowing skin bulged around a thin band of gold.
 She slid her hand off of the counter and rubbed her thigh as if to dislodge it.  'It's nothing.'
 'That says you have a husband, Marion.'
 'So what?'
 'That gets messy.'
 'My husband couldn't care less.'
 'It's amazing how many wives have said that to me.'
 'You get that many offers do you?' she asked with a half laugh.
 'I meant when I was on the force,' he said with a deprecating nod.  'Lots of wives who came in covered in bruises.'
 'I've had my fair share,' Marion said, picking up her cigarette.  'Not for this reason though.'
 'I don't want to be the cause-'
 'Matthew,' she said, suddenly serious, 'come home with me tonight.'
 He looked about him, as if he were concerned about being overheard.  'Where is he?'
 'Away.  He'll never find out.'
 'Marion,' he said with a sigh, 'you're a beautiful woman, you can have any man you want -'
 'Balls,' she spat.  'I'm not beautiful.  I'm the wrong side of forty and I'm worn out.  But I could use a friend, the same as you.'  She reached across the counter and placed her hand upon his.  He considered.  Then he curled his hand around hers and squeezed.
 'Later,' he promised.

 It had been a mistake, he decided as he lay staring up at Marion's bedroom ceiling, seeing faces in the flaking paint.  Never get involved with a married woman, he had always believed in that.  Of course, it made the relationship easier; there could be no promises of marriage, such a liaison was always easy to end, but the subterfuge, the sneaking around.  He had known colleagues who had found the deception exciting, but he had never understood it. 
 And Marion had been so… needy. She had begged him to kiss her, something he rarely did.  He never examined his reason for this too closely; he knew he disliked the intimacy.  Her lipstick smeared mouth had searched for his and his insides recoiled as the wet lips puckered and pulled.  She had held him tight, digging her nails into his back, while he listened out for the husband's key in the lock.
  Now she lay against him, one leg twisted around his knee, fingers combing through the hair on his chest as her breathing deepened.  How long would he have to lie there, he wondered?  All night, leave early in the morning?  He supposed that would be best. If he left now at, what was it? He lifted his head to look at the alarm clock on the bedside table, at two o'clock in the morning, Pat and Fred would not be pleased to be woken up.
 Eventually he too fell asleep, and dreamt of his old nick, of the time when he and Bowen had got drunk the previous Christmas and sung carols to the prisoners locked up in the cells.  He awoke when the dawn penetrated through the thin cotton curtains, shining against his eyelids.  His eyes fluttered as he opened them, sticky with sleep and something else. He lifted his fingers to his cheeks.  They came away wet.  Good God, he cursed himself, he had been crying in his sleep.  He sat up hurriedly, not caring if he disturbed Marion who had turned her back to him during the night.  He fumbled on the floor for his clothes and dressed quickly.  Marion muttered something at him to which he gave no reply.   Then he bolted down the stairs, lifted the latch on the front door and hurried out into the street, desperate for a pee. 

 There was noise coming from the kitchen as Matthew took the back way into the pub.  He stopped in the lavatory and relieved himself, then headed to the kitchen.
 'Morning,' he announced.
 'Morning,' Fred returned, grinning hugely.  Patricia said nothing.
 'What's for breakfast?' Matthew asked, pulling out a chair and sitting opposite Frederick at the table.
 'Bacon and eggs,' Patricia answered stiffly, reaching for another plate.  'Why you back so early?  Can't she cook you breakfast?'
 'Didn't stop to find out.'
 'Good night was it?' Frederick leered.  Unable himself to indulge in affairs with married women, he took his pleasure in Matthew's amours.   Patricia clipped him around his head.  Matthew smiled an affirmation.  'Seeing her again, then?'
 He shrugged.  'Maybe.'
 'She's married.'  Patricia sat down with a thump and poured out tea.
 'I know.'
 'Do you know who she's married to?  No, I bet you don't.'
 Matthew stuffed a rasher of bacon into his mouth.  'Go on then.  Tell me.'
 'Larry Pelham.'
 Matthew's chewing ceased.  'Pelham?'
 'Yes.'
 'The one I was at school with?'
 'Yes.'
 'She's his wife?'
 'Oh, for heaven's sake, yes.  Marion Pelham.  They married about six years ago.  He's a doctor, you know.  He was at the same hospital where Georgie was.  Georgie knows him.'
 'Bugger,' Matthew declared.
 'Language,' Patricia warned.
 'George won't say anything,' Frederick said assuredly.  'He probably didn't even see you with her.'
 'He was in the pub last night.  He was sitting in the corner with those friends of his.  He must have seen her.'
 'He won't say anything,' Frederick said again.  'It's not as if he still sees Pelham anyway.'
 'Marion said he was away.'
 'Probably working shifts at the hospital,' Patricia said, frost melting as she saw the anxiety on her brother's face.  'But you shouldn't have done it, Matty, not them's that married.'
 'I know.  I usually don't, Pat.  But last night, well, I didn't see why not.'
 'I don't see why not,' Frederick said defensively.  'Why shouldn't he, Pat?  If a bird's offering it, Matt ain't got no wife of his own to think about.'
 'Then he should get one,' Patricia said emphatically.  'A wife would be just the thing for you, Matty.'
 'And who would have me?' Matthew asked, dipping a slice of bread into his yolk.
 'Women have always been after you.  You've have plenty of chances.'
 'I'm not such an attractive proposition now, though, am I?'
 'Well, you've only got yourself to blame for that.'
 'Pat,' Frederick said quietly.
 'Well,' she continued heedlessly, 'planting evidence.  I don't know what you were thinking.'
 'A moment of madness, Pat.  Can I please be allowed to forget it?'
 Patricia harrumphed.  Just then, the thump of George's crutches were heard in the hallway.  All three of them stared expectantly at the doorway.
 'I thought you were bringing me breakfast up,' George said accusingly to Patricia.
 'I forgot, Georgie,' Patricia apologised, getting up and taking his elbow.  'Matty came in and we were talking.'
 'Matthew,' George greeted him loudly as he swung himself onto the chair.  'And where were you last night?'
 Frederick and Matthew glanced at each other.  'Out,' Matthew answered simply.
 'I know you were,' George nodded knowingly.  'With Larry Pelham's wife, no less.'
 Matthew swallowed.  'No, I don't think so.'
 'Oh, come on, Matty boy.  I saw her.  Couldn't miss her, not in that tight red dress.  Really dressed up for you, didn't she?  Bit past it though, ain't she?  Is that all you can get these days?'  He laughed, encouraging Frederick to join in with a look.
 'Better than you'll ever get, Georgie,' Matthew said with a savage quietness.
 George's laugh died abruptly.  The two brothers eyes met, two pairs of blue locked in hatred.  Matthew's grip tightened on his knife.
 'You bastard,' George snarled, his eyes bulging.
 Immediately, Matthew's anger vanished.  To think that these two had once been inseparable, that George had hero-worshipped his brother before he went to war.  And George had suffered, not only in the loss of his legs, but he had spent years in the trenches, undergoing God only knew what.  He had a right to be angry, to be bitter.  Matthew had no right to taunt him.
 He patted his trouser pockets for his cigarettes, anything to distract him from the tension at the table.
 'You hungry, Georgie?' Patricia asked too gaily.
 'Yeah,' he muttered, banging the space where the plate should go.
 'It's all ready,' she set down his plate, 'just how you like it.'
 There was silence save for the clink of cutlery on crockery.  Was this to be the future, Matthew wondered.  The family always on tenterhooks because of two embittered brothers?  No, he decided, something would have to be done.
 'Can you give me a 'and today in the cellar, Matt?' Frederick asked.  'There's some crates need shifting -'
 'Can't today, Fred, sorry.  I've got to go out.'
 'Where?' Patricia demanded.
 'Just out.'
 Unhappy with his answer, but realising that was all she was going to get, Patricia ate her breakfast.