Free Candleland by Martyn Waites

… and thinking about … well, you know.”
    I know,” said Larkin. “We were both there when we needed someone. You don’t have to say any more.”
    She looked up and smiled. She opened her mouth as if to say something important, something deeper, but instead announced, “It’s pasta carbonara tonight. But don’t expect this every night. It’ll be someone else’s turn to cook tomorrow.” She stood up, began busying herself at the cooker.
    â€œWhere’s Henry?”
    â€œIn his room.”
    â€œI’ll go and see him.” Larkin stood and crossed the kitchen. He stood behind her, looked at the curve of her neck under her piled-up hair, smooth and white. His hands began to move towards her shoulders.
    Suddenly she turned, looked straight at him. Her eyes had none of the sexual directness of the previous night. Instead they held a kind of subdued claustrophobic fear. “Tell him his dinner’s ready, will you?” she said as brightly and evasively as possible.
    Larkin knew that look. Fear of confinement, fear of involvement. Damage did that to people. He nodded and left the room. Faye went back to what she was doing.
    He walked up the stairs all the way to the attic and knocked on the door of Moir’s room.
    â€œYeah?” rumbled the familiar Scottish voice.
    â€œIt’s Stephen.”
    There was a heavy-footed scramble of indecent haste across the floor and the door was sharply pulled open. Cosmetically, Moir looked better than he had the previous night. His hair was clean, his face was shaved, his clothes didn’t smell. But beyond that, he was just the same.
    â€œWell?” Moir’s eyes were half-crazed, half-imploring.
    â€œI’ll come in and tell you.”
    Moir retreated into the room, sat on the bed.
    Larkin entered and saw what Moir had in his hand. A revolver.
    â€œWhat the fuck’re you doing with that?” said Larkin.
    â€œJust cleaning it. Why, d’you think I’m goin’ tae top myself?” asked Moir with a sharp laugh.
    â€œWell …” Larkin shrugged.
    â€œDon’t worry. Used to be my dad’s. I brought it down in case there was goin’ tae be any rough stuff. I was just givin’ it a polish. You never know.”
    â€œJust put it away, please, Henry. It’s making me nervous.”
    Moir bundled it up and slid it under the bed. Larkin breathed a sigh of relief and looked round the room. The slanting roof and drawn curtain together with the sparse furniture gave the room a sombre, cold feel. Or perhaps that was just Moir’s mood permeating the atmosphere. On the side of the bed was a bottle of Bell’s, almost empty. One glass. Well, things can’t be that bad, thought Larkin. At least he’s not drinking straight from the bottle.
    â€œD’you wanna drink?” asked Moir.
    â€œThere’s only one glass.”
    â€œFor visitors.” He almost laughed. “I’m takin’ it straight from the bottle.”
    Oh fuck, thought Larkin, things are that bad. Let’s hope the gun’s not loaded.
    â€œSo tell me.” Moir handed the glass to Larkin, who sat on the other end of the bed.
    Larkin handed Moir the report Jackie Fairley had given him. Moir rifled through it, staring at the pages as if the words themselves might yield up secrets, answers. While he looked, Larkin ran through the story again. After finishing the report, Moir sat impassively, eyes focused on something Larkin couldn’t see, something that wasn’t in the room but that Moir carried with him. Larkin was going to tell him to expect the worst, but one look at Moir showed he had gone over every calamitous outcome in his mind. When Larkin had finished, Moir took a large slug from the bottle and turned to him.
    â€œYou’re a good friend,” he said, tears welling in his eyes. “Thanks.” It wasn’t the response Larkin had been expecting.
    He