The Van

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Jimmy Rabbitte Sr had the kitchen to himself. He felt a draught and looked up and Darren, one of his sons, was at the door, looking for somewhere to do his homework.

— Oh—, said Darren, and he turned to go back into the hall.

— D’yeh need the table, Darren? said Jimmy Sr.

— Eh—

— No, come on. Fire away.

Jimmy Sr stood up. His arse had gone numb on him.

— Jesus—!

He straightened up and grinned at Darren.

— I’ll go somewhere else, he said.

— Thanks, said Darren.

— Not at all, said Jimmy Sr.

Jimmy Sr left Darren in the kitchen and went out to the front step and sat on it. Christ, the step was cold; he’d end up with piles or the flu or something. But there was nowhere else to go until after the dinner. All the rooms in the house were occupied. He rubbed his hands; it wasn’t too bad. He tried to finish the article in the Press he’d been reading, about how people suffered after they got out of jail, with photographs of the Guildford Four.

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