said Jack Parry. That’s the sulphur. That’s the sulphur penetrating your mask. I don’t wear a mask, said Richard Parry. Hear that, Mam? said Jack Parry. Hear that? No masks. Typical. No one wears a mask, Dad. The very idea seemed ridiculous to the boy. No. They don’t care who they murder. Want to know why? Because there’s always somebody willing to take their place. To fill the dead man’s shoes. So Jack Parry had told his son everything he knew about sulphur. When Parry thought about it now, years later, it wasn’t his father’s words he heard. The words were his own. But it was Jack Parry’s voice that pronounced them. You’ll come home, said Jack Parry, and straightaway you’ll need a bath. Your mother will say supper’s ready, yellow cheese roasted on the coal fire. But you’ll lock the bathroom door and pull the bolt. In your teenage shame.
