The sallow flesh of his cheeks sunk further inwards as Oswald Thomas-Peters inhaled and let the smoke creep through his chest.  He flicked the fresh ash from the tip of the cigarette, the smoke rising and clinging to wisps of stained hair, before exhaling slowly though his nose.  Almost immediately he bit upon the filter and sucked again, momentarily the tip glowed more brightly than anything else in the room, before he exhaled once more.  He concentrated now with all his care, trying desperately not to cough, as he pressed the edge of the burning ash against the side of the saucer and separated it from the remaining length of unburnt tobacco.  Task complete he leant the butt alongside the others each of a varying length.  Smoke from the smouldering ash meandered upwards and teased around his nostrils.  He really should have finished the smaller butts first but he had needed that extra rush a new cigarette would bring.

How he fucking hated Samuel being out as long as this.  Especially now it was dark, especially at the weekend.  A burst of light pierced through the net curtains as a firework rattled down the street before exploding in a nearby garden.  Those little bastards had been loitering for over an hour undoubtedly gearing up for some trouble.

They didn’t sound too close, but he couldn’t be for sure.  Thomas-Peters relit the stub of the cigarette and pushed himself to his feet.  A wheeze rattled somewhere deep within his chest.  He coughed then swallowed. He shuffled towards the front window, squeezing between those fucking crates that Samuel had brought home ages back, and pressed the side of his face against the wallpaper.  He lifted the net curtain a fraction to the side and peered out.

The fog had thickened since he had last looked yet he could still just about make out their vague shapes at the end of the street.  That was a relief.  He resisted the temptation for a quick drag and peeked for a second time.  Two maybe three of them were sat perched on the roof of a car, their feet dangling downwards and heels kicking back against the windows.  The rest surrounded the vehicle on all sides idly rocking it back and forth.  One of the youths stood, centre of the roof, and began to jump up and down like a child in play, then quickly bored lobbed a lager bottle down the length of the street. 

Thomas-Peters flinched as the bottle shattered against the kerb and let the curtain from his grasp.  An urgent drag.  He could feel his hands shaking, his breathing short.  He couldn’t risk letting them see him at the window, not while he was on his own.

Not that they were likely to do anything mind.  2a Spencer Street was a safe address what with most of the kids knowing Samuel as a loon and that he would go more than mental if anything ever happened to his father.  But there were always new little bastards appearing in the neighbourhood, keen to make their presence felt, and some of them might not be aware of how fucking mental he was. 

An eruption of ironic jeers as a boot finally broke through the windscreen.  Undoubtedly they would set in on fire soon and wait in hope that the fire brigade might make a show.  They probably had the broken bricks ready and waiting.  

Samuel better hurry up and get his arse back home he really shouldn’t leave his old dad on his own like this.  And maybe it was time to suggest that Samuel went and reintroduced himself to them.  Samuel wouldn't mind, he would even go to their houses; he was good to his father like that.  The trouble was he liked to be just.  No way would he give a bollocking to the wrong person.  He liked to be certain of their names first.

Thomas-Peters grabbed the half empty packet of cigarettes and matches and hobbled out of the room.  He gasped heavily as he began to climb instantly feeling that mixture of pain and numbness in his legs, especially the left, which always worsened when he went upstairs.  How many times had the doctor told him to get some exercise and stop smoking. Fine for him but he hadn't got a fucking clue how much his legs hurt and what else did he have beyond his ciggies. 

He paused halfway up the stairs, coughing as he propped himself against the banister, and fumbled for one of the stubs at the bottom of the packet.  He quickly inhaled twice before dropping the butt and stubbing it out on the boards.

Samuel's room was right there at the top of the stairs.  The one with the No Entry road sign screwed to the door and the words FUCK OFF AND DIE scrawled upon the surface.  He crossed the landing and shuffled into his own room without turning on the light.  It would be easier to sneak a look this way. 

At first his eyes were slow to adjust to the darkness and the fog.  His breath misted the window too, but he dare not been seen wiping it clear.  He knew what they were doing though, their jeers as the car rolled over and burst into flames illuminating the delight in their young faces.  It was the usual group, he was safe from them.

‘Dad.’  A voice bellowed up through the floorboards.  ‘Where are you?’

Relief the boy was home at last, but he sounded agitated and that always set off his nerves too.  ‘Up here.’ 

‘Where the fuck…’  The voice trailed off.

Thomas-Peters lit a fresh cigarette.  You could never tell with Samuel, never could.  The best thing was to go with his moods, the better the devil you know as the saying went.  Don’t complain, don’t resist.  He had tried beating it out of him years back, just like his old Dad had done to him, but he was a fast grower.  Strong too, even at twelve, when he had thumped him back in the face.  Best to go with his moods ever since. 

Slowly he began to make his way down the stairs.

‘Where's my dinner?’  He must have heard the creak of the bottom step.  ‘I’m hungry.’

'Microwave.  I'll warm it up for you,' he coughed and clutched at the banister rail.

Samuel did not turn round when his father shuffled into the room gingerly clasping a helping of steaming curry.  Thomas-Peters carefully placed the tin foil carton on the seat of an armchair and quickly licked his burning fingertips before pulling a spoon from his pocket and placing it next to the meal. 

‘Dinner’s ready.’  He sat down in the armchair alongside and looked at his son who was sat as usual crossed legged, three foot away from the television.  ‘Mind it’s hot.’
Samuel did not look up. 

Thomas-Peters fingered the selection of semi smoked butts in the saucer as he peered over the shoulders of his son.  He couldn’t see much of the screen, he was used to that, but what he could see was a poorly focussed black and white video recording.  Probably one of those security films that Samuel liked to bring home from time to time.

‘What's this?’ he asked.

‘Work.’  An extravagant sigh. ‘I’ve fucking missed it now.’  Samuel leant forward and smashed the side of his palm against the rewind button, waited fifteen seconds and smashed again against Play.  ‘Let me concentrate.’

Thomas-Peters nodded.  Samuel loved his work these days and who was he to complain.  Let’s face it the kid had had a tough time what with the bitch of his mother fucking off when he was not ten and then the smack had fucked him up for years on end.  But Samuel had got himself clean and he couldn’t have wished for more than when he managed to settle in at the service station.  He really loved it there. 

Thomas-Peters nodded again, contentedly this time and pulled a fresh cigarette butt from the packet and watched as the tape was rewound again.  Samuel was on to something that was sure.  The quality of the recording made it difficult for him to make out much but Samuel would be right in there working out what had happened.  Not that he was meant to mind, they said his job was serving customers, but they couldn't deny he had a knack of catching thieves.  He was only doing it for their good so why should they complain. 

He leant across the armrest watching with interest as the brief segment of footage resumed from the start. 

There was Samuel behind the counter as a woman, her features indistinct, enters the store.  She glances briefly at the rack of magazines but does not select one before walking to the till point.  She takes a credit card from a purse and hands it to Samuel.  He swipes it through the machine and hands her a slip of paper that she signs.  Samuel carefully scrutinises the signature against the card, he even looks directly into the woman's face, before he authorises the transaction and hands back the card and a receipt.  And then she's gone.

‘Stolen card?’

Again they watched the sequence in silence.  And five times more.  Thomas-Peters glanced at the curry, a skin had begun to from across the surface, and waited for the tape to finish before he leant forward.

‘Son, your dinner.’

Samuel did not look up concentrating hard on the screen.  He had always been the same, once he had got involved with something he wasn't going to let go until it was completely sorted.  Just like he used to be at that age.  Thomas-Peters relit a cigarette butt.  He could always reheat the dinner anyway. 

Momentarily he gazed across to the window as a car, lights on full beam, entered the street.  He hadn’t even noticed that those little bastards outside had gone quiet, they must have buggered off to annoy the fuck out of someone else for the night.  He should take advantage and try and get an early one for once.  He shut his eyes and immediately began to drift.

A dull thud.  ‘Did you see that?’ 

Thomas-Peters shook himself alert to see Samuel’s index finger pressed hard into the television screen.

‘What?’

Too late the tape was already whizzing backwards.

‘You see.’  The tape stopped just at the moment the woman handed over the credit card.  The finger jabbed and jabbed again.  It was as if he was trying to stop her, hurt her even.  He hated it when Samuel got mad like this, rocking on his haunches, accusing the stilled image.  ‘I just fucking knew it.’

Thomas-Peters fumbled for the cigarette packet.  He never knew what to do or say.  He couldn’t really help, no one ever could.  It was just the way he was, things mattered with Samuel. 

'Can’t you see?’ Samuel arched back and stared at his father.  His eyes demanding an answer.  ‘I just fucking knew.  Can’t you see that?’

Thomas-Peters sucked on the filter.  He didn’t know what to say.  He sucked again.  Samuel shook his head quickly head from side to side, but even then his eyes still stared rigidly, demanding still.  His finger jabbed angrily in the air, but this time at his own father accusingly.

‘You don't fucking understand,’ shouted Samuel as he rose to his feet and hung dauntingly over the armchair.  ‘You're not fucking interested, are you?’

‘No it's just,’ mumbled Thomas-Peters.

‘Just what?’  Samuel placed a hand on each armrest trapping his father completely with his broad frame.

‘You know me son.  I can't always see it like you,’ he said flicking his hand feebly in the direction of the television. 

‘It’s because you fucking don’t.’

‘Son, please.’

It was too late.  Samuel turned, threw himself to the floor and smashed his fist against the control panel of the VCR, before the video had fully ejected he snatched it free, leapt back to his feet and kicked hard against the headrest of the spare armchair.  It flipped backwards and toppled against the wall showering tepid curry across the wallpaper. 

‘Fuck you.’  The front door slammed shut. 

He didn’t try to stop him, not that he could.  It was best if the boy went out and burnt off some energy, he would come back later calm as could be and not a word would be said between them.  He gazed down at the cigarette packet that had fallen to the carpet when he had ducked.  He was desperate for a fresh one but he knew he would have to wait to light it.  His fucking arms were shaking too much.

Outside a voice bellowed through the fog laden street.  Anxiously he gazed towards the doorway.  He knew it was Samuel shouting.  Christ, he better not be coming back.  Those same few words again and again.  He couldn’t make them out.  He didn’t care.  The voice was fading somewhere into the night.