“Thought he didn’t saymuch?”
Dylan opened a cupboard and retrieved a stack of artfully chipped bowls. “He has his moments?—oh hey, speak of thedevil.”
Angelo turned as Dylan’s father entered the kitchen. Dylan grabbed the older man’s arm and tugged himforward.
“Dad, this is my friend, Angelo. Angelo, this is my dad,Mick.”
Mick Hart was broader than Dylan?—taller too?—but their features were the same even down to the natural shape of their facial hair. Mick’s smile was easy, despite the gruffness he clearly wore like a second skin, and his handshake warm and firm. “Nice to meet you, son. Come take a seat. My stomach thinks its throat’s beencut.”
He preceded Angelo to the kitchen table. Lacking any better ideas, Angelo followed him and slid into a funky chair that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Camden bar. Mick poured himself a glass of wine from the bottle on the table, then offered it toAngelo.
Angelo shook his head. “I can’t drink at the moment.Antibiotics.”
“That’s a bugger,” Mick said. “Haven’t got the clap, haveyou?”
“Dad!” Dylan banged the bowls down on the table. “How do you find a way of asking that every time you meet one of myfriends?”
Mick chuckled and swigged his wine like it was cheap lager. “You know I’m only joking,son.”
“Of course I do. It’s the only joke youhave.”
Dylan huffed and stomped back to the stove. He was back a moment later with the curry, and as he’d predicted, Mick inhaled his food and disappeared again, thumping Angelo on the back and taking the wine withhim.
Angelo sat back in his seat, pleasantly full from his first non-Italian meal in weeks. “That was short andsweet.”
“Always is.” Dylan picked at his food. “He likes you,though.”
“How can youtell?”
“Because he offered you hiswine.”
Angelo snorted. “Bollocks. That was the most pointless interactionever.”
“No interaction is pointless,Angelo.”
“Ain’tit?”
“Of course not.” Dylan pushed his bowl away. “People don’t have to talk to express themselves. I knew that before I met you, but somehow Iforgot.”
“Is this your way of telling me that I’m a shitcommunicator?”
“More like it’s my way of telling you that it doesn’t matter and that there’s plenty of things that I’m shit at too. Perhaps I don’t listenenough.”
“Listening is yourjob.”
“Right. And I hear the same problems recycled over and over again. What are the chances that I’ve stopped payingattention?”
Angelo frowned. “Are we still talking about the samething?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Dylan stood with a sigh and gathered the dirty bowls. “I guess I’m a bit frazzled at themoment.”
Angelo trailed Dylan to the sink with the curry pot. His legs had gone to sleep, but for once the persistent tingling didn’t bother him. “You were going to tell me about tax credit week at your work. Is that what’s stressing youout?”
“Mostly. It’s worse than January when the credit card debts kickin.”
Angelo gestured for Dylan to explain and hustled him sideways so he could get to the sink and turn the tapson.
Dylan looked as though he might protest, but after a fleeting standoff, moved aside. “Tax credits are a wage top-up the government pays to low-income households. Recipients have to renew every summer, which inevitably leads to total chaos. The system is shambolic and makes no sense even to me, and I’ve been on every craptastic training course under thesun.”
