The Mayor Of Pontybridge

XIX: "HE CAN'T KEEP HOLD OF THE PUSSY FOR MORE THAN TWO SECONDS"

Zac lives.

He doesn't just survive, either. No -- he takes his just salvaged existence by the hands and turns it into something extraordinary, like a potter working with silt and turning it into a vase worthy of a middle-aged critic with his glasses halfway down his nose and a running commentary of 'deeper meaning.' Just a week after the BNP Brigade hit Pontybridge, (and quite literally hit Zac) he arrived at Flo's door with crutches, a neck brace and a warrant to turn the warehouse into an animal sanctuary.

"Think about it," he'd said, as he attempted to dance to Justin Timberlake sans a working leg and plus the influence of a fair amount of morphine. "They roll up, expecting to host one of their 'kill the immigrants' parties and perform a sacrifice to Donald Trump, or whatever, and instead I meet them at the door and ask if they want to adopt a rabbit. Genius!"

Flo still isn't sure it's so much genius as forgiving on a level she's not sure she could ever achieve. It's people like Zac, she knows, that disturb the world's balance just a little, one by one, to thrust its motion forward. To knock its tired cycle off beat, if only for a while, and transform evil into good. The kid nearly died, for Christ's sake. Anyone in their right mind would be hiring themselves a lawyer, marching Tom Page's racist arse down to court and pressing for a minimum sentence of ten years in prison and being forced to watch the US version of The Inbetweeners (this, in Flo's opinion, is probably all that is available on hell's TV guide).

She doesn't want to admit it, but she could probably learn a lot from Zak, vis-à-vis her relationship with her Mum, which currently is about as healthy as Jaguar's relationship with illegal substances and Morrissey. If somebody can get hit by a car and not hold a grudge about it, then she figures she can at least be mature enough not to continue posting photos of Clement with his hands down the pants of various women (and, in some cases, where the Budweiser had apparently had an extra strong kick, various men). She isn't, however, quite sure she can be mature enough to hold an actual conversation with her, and so she changes her mobile phone number and disconnects the landline whenever possible.

(This in turn gives Reginald an excuse for his complete lack of sales -- he is insisting that, were it not for being 'cut off from the outside world,' he would have sold hundreds of his special-edition 'Get Reggie For Bed' pyjamas, by now).

Unfortunately for both Flo and her Dad, she is forgetting one vital thing: practically everyone in Pontybridge knows where they live, including both her Mum and Reginald's latest band of supporters - the local Mumsnet tribe. At least two of the latter turn up most evenings, armed with various Reginald memorabilia and vindications that they, of all the disillusioned Mums, adore him the most. Arguments include, but are not limited to: 'well unlike Shirley, I don't know what Clement's dick tastes like,' 'if you married me, Reg, at least you'd recognise your wife when you woke up in the morning -- Barb wears enough foundation to flood the Sahara' and 'Sarah, sweetie, your flirting is about as subtle as your roots.'

As ruthless and highly uncomfortable as it is, Flo would take trying to fend off an army of Mums talking about her Dad's 'shocking sex appeal' over trying to be civil to her own Mum, anyway. As it turns out, she isn't going to get the option.

"Bye Barb," she calls, as today's three contenders get back into their Citroen Berlingos, a car as synonymous with new Mums as perky is with Harper. "I'll see you later, Susan - tell me how that perm goes, alright? And Mary! I hope little Freddie gets over his chicken pox! Yes, herbal remedies are miracle workers, I agree! Alright, I'll see you later -- oh Christ, are you here to see my Dad, too? I'm afraid he's not taking any more visitors, today, you - Mum?"

"Florence." Her Mum raises her sunglasses up onto her forehead and flashes her daughter a tight smile. She's got her hair in a loose ponytail, which is unnerving enough as it is, because her Mum is a strong believer that if a woman isn't jogging and she's got her hair in a bobble, then she's most definitely 'let herself go.' Even more unnerving than that, however, is the fact that she's evidently walked here.