Read Chapter 12: — CALLUM

May's grandson Callum returned to Willowbrook in a black car with two men Martin did not recognise.

His hair was cropped short. Tattoos climbed his forearms. He wore the watch of someone who wanted strangers to understand that it cost money.

He had come because Pete had been threatened in town by men linked to Callum's employer, and Callum decided the appropriate response was to frighten everyone involved.

May was horrified.

"I asked for my grandson back," she told Martin. "Not this."

Callum laughed when Martin suggested legitimate work.

"You want me weaving baskets with pensioners?"

"No. I want you to stop being employed by men who'll abandon you the first time the police arrive."

"You sound like probation."

"Probation gets paid to care. I'm doing it free."

Callum left.

Weeks later he was beaten badly outside an illegal gambling room after a dispute that had nothing to do with his family.

Martin visited him in hospital.

Callum's face was purple and swollen.

"Come work for us," Martin said.

"Doing what?"

"Packing. Deliveries. Maintenance. Learn design if you have a brain."

"Everyone there hates me."

"They'll survive."

"Why do you care?"

Martin considered lying.

"Because I like fixing things. It's one of my defects. And because your grandmother looks at the road every evening as if she can force you home by staring hard enough."

Callum's eyes filled.

He turned his head away.

He joined Sunward Weaves three weeks later.

Some workers objected.

Martin called a meeting.

"A criminal record is a fact," he said. "It is not a prophecy. If Callum threatens anyone, steals, deals drugs or brings violence here, he's gone. If he works, he gets judged on the work. Same as the rest of us."

Callum stood at the back, rigid with humiliation.

George gave him a box cutter and a stack of cartons.

"Start with labels," he said.

No speech. No forgiveness ceremony.

Just a job.

It turned out to be what Callum needed most.