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say that he doesn’t play by the rules, which is a cardinal sin in role-play apparently. Some of them
complained that he’s dirty too.’
He was dirty. His body odour was powerful even before we stepped into his squalid bedroom,
which had only one small window through which you could see a small section of the back yard: all
concrete and the winter carcasses of rampant self-seeded buddleia plants.
The bed was a single, with bedding on it that had probably never visited a launderette. A desk,
roughly constructed from bits of MDF, was the centrepiece of the room. It had a PC on it, and a dusty
iPod dock, which cradled his phone. Music was playing: Celtic sounding, the lyrics in German. It
wasn’t mainstream. The walls were covered with posters and artworks depicting dark and bloody
fantasy worlds.
Edward Fount sat down on the side of his bed and was unafraid to study us intently from behind his
fringe. Fraser took the computer chair, adjusting it for wobble before she settled on it, crossing her
legs. I saw Fount’s eyes run down her calves and linger on her shoes, which were a dark maroon
patent leather. Woodley and I stood against the wall. There weren’t more than a few feet between us
all.
‘Does that window open?’ said Fraser.
Fount shook his head. ‘It’s painted shut. Doesn’t matter, it’s always cold down here anyway.’
‘You need ventilation,’ she said, ‘or you’ll get sick.’
‘I take vitamins,’ he said. A feeble gesture indicated a tube of Vitamin C tablets on his desk, beside
a warped black plastic tray with the remains of a microwaved meal in it.
‘Well that’s good,’ said Fraser. ‘It’s important to take care of yourself.’
Fount nodded.
‘Especially, I’d say,’ she continued, ‘when you are out doing battle every weekend. Would I be
right?’
‘Not every weekend,’ he said. ‘Once a month. And it’s not always a battle. It’s a narrative, a
storyline we enact.’
‘Narrative’s a very grown-up word Mr Fount and so is enact. I’m impressed. So tell me, what
character do you play in these “narratives”? I understand you all develop roles for yourselves, would
that be right?’
‘I’m an Assassin,’ he said. He knew she was toying with him now, there was nothing stupid behind
those furtive eyes, but still he couldn’t disguise the pride in his words.
‘Uh-huh. And would Assassin be an important role in the game?’
‘Very. It’s very, very important. The Assassins lie in the shadows, they watch, they wait, they know
secrets.’
‘Do they now?’
He nodded, his chin up, trying to assert confidence.
‘And would an Assassin have a lot of power?’ Her voice lingered mockingly on the sibilants.
‘Yes.’
‘Would an Assassin be a match for a big man like, say, DI Clemo here?’
‘Assassins have their methods. They’re afraid of nobody and everybody fears them.’
‘That’s very clever. Good for you. By the way, are you not curious to know why we’re here?’
‘Is it because of the boy who went missing?’
‘You’ve shown a remarkable lack of interest. Why is that?’
‘It’s nothing to do with me. I didn’t see anything.’
‘What happened to Benedict Finch wouldn’t be one of your secrets then?’