The Ghost

irritation from nearby fans. As attention shifted from a fruitless set-piece, his uncle came round to the commotion.
    â€œDorian! Are you watching the match or do you want to go home?”
    Cook resumed the pretence of watching the match. Mountford did likewise, prodding and goading his friend into cackles and heckles, squawks of mock-protest, and theatrically defensive ‘dead-arm’ punches. As the three filed out at full-time, Cook complained about the ‘bore draw’.
    â€œIt was 4-0 – to them,” snapped Russell. Neither Cook nor Mountford had been aware of a single goal.
    After dropping off Mountford at home, Cook and Russell took an unfamiliar route back to Esther’s, along the cycle path around the edge of the play-park. In the unwaning teatime sunshine, the gravel was warm and crunchy under Cook’s cheap plimsolls. Russell quickened his step and slipped into the corner shop, emerging – just as a delighted Cook caught up – with a lollipop.
    â€œSchool alright, Dor?” said Russell as they turned into Esther’s street.
    â€œYeah,” shrugged Cook, lapping at the lolly. “There’s a boy who gets bullied a lot and I don’t like it.”
    â€œOh, right. That’s not good. As long as it’s not you.”
    â€œNo, it’s not. But he gets bullied all the time.”
    â€œHas he told the teachers?”
    â€œI think so, but they don’t do anything.”
    â€œIt’s up to his mum and dad. Don’t get involved!”
    â€œBut should I tell the teachers, as well?”
    â€œStay out of it, Dor. You might end up as the one being bullied if you’re not careful.”
    â€œI think they must really hurt him and I wish he’d stand up for himself.”
    â€œDoes he not do that?”
    â€œHe tries, but they just keep hurting him. I’ve told Den and sometimes he helps out ‘cos he’s older but they just do it again when he’s not there.”
    The two reached Esther’s door. Russell lifted the hinged metal knocker and let it fall, twice. The clangs were loud but unnecessary, since Esther was already in the parlour and had the door open in seconds.
    â€œJust leave it, mate.”
    â€œLeave what?” demanded Esther.
    â€œNothing,” said Cook, too quickly.
    â€œMust be something, Dor,” said Esther. “Y’can’t leave nothing.”

13. Going Social

    INCREASINGLY, COOK’S HOME OFFICE reflected the junk and jumble of his thoughts – a mini-museum of the unresolved, the unattended, the unexplained. Gina called it his ‘man cave’, while Alfie preferred ‘daddy’s den’. Cook, pompously, insisted on ‘study’. (The only time it saw actual study was when he surrendered it to Gina and Alfie for homework help, after conspicuously resetting the computer’s browser history.) Gina’s sessions regularly concluded with her resolving to ‘freshen the place up’, but the room had long since settled into a benign obsolescence – wheezing PC, beige Anaglypta, rarely punctured corkboard, 2003 edition of the
Writers & Artists’ Yearbook,
clumps of unwatched (sometimes unwrapped) DVDs, and an enormous and ugly crystal ashtray that Cook – now a non-smoker – retained for its writerly allure. It was the Sunday morning after a late evening dinner party, hosted – by Gina and, nominally, Cook – in honour of a friend’s fiftieth. Cook had drank heavily, eaten lightly and, buffered by alcoholic bravado and the comfort of acquaintances, reassured himself that his performance on
Talking Pictures
would at least lead to fewer TV gigs. All the guests were comfortably removed from Cook’s work circle and were unlikely to have been watching. (Will Stone – the last to leave – had mentioned the show, naturally referring to it as
Talking Bollocks
. But, given its late transmission time, Cook was sure that