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As far as Tarquin was concerned, negative emotion was like underwear – he was perfectly happy with the idea of people having it, but felt rather uncomfortable if they trouped around showing it off. He held himself to the same standards, having long established himself as the chipperest, most helpful (and therefore most lovable) member of his family, but thinking about family was exactly what was tearing him up inside right now.

Kari looked like his grandson. Similar build, similar gait, and up until now, similar happy-go-luckiness, what with the child’s random bouts of dancing and tendency to skip around instead of walk. Upon hearing the lengthy tragedy of Kari’s life story, Tarquin figured the only thing that had made one child a killer and one child head of the student council was circumstance. It was the kind of thought that got his lip wobbling. What would happen to his grandson if Tarquin himself wasn’t there to guide him? He didn’t know.

“I have to win this, don’t I?” he whispered, a little guiltily. And with practised ease, he fixed a smile back onto his face.

Nobody else was smiling.

“You’ve doomed yourself,” observed Eirlys, scrunching up a post-it-note. “The audience has made it clear what they think about murderers, and you just admitted to being one.”

Kari clambered off the podium and swaggered towards her, an uneven rhythm in their step.

ALL HERE ARE DOOMED, they declared. CONDEMNED FOR OUR SINS.

Haralda put her hands on her hips and said, “Well, I certainly don’t remember murdering anyone.”

“We would if we had, wouldn’t we?” said Tarquin. He’d always thought the risk of not being able to provide for his family from prison outweighed the reward of getting even with somebody. Unless he’d killed with kindness, Tarquin was no murderer.

“Damn straight,” said Connie. “If I’d run someone over, I wouldn’t have so many clients.”

“I have never killed,” said Eirlys, flatly. “And I don’t recognise the voice of the man over the phone. You’re an outlier.”

LIES, said Kari. SELF-DECEPTION. YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR THEIR DEATHS.

“This is nonsense,” smiled Tarquin. “How can we be responsible for the murder of people we’ve never met?”

IN THE SAME WAY YOU WOULD STEP ON AN ANT, said Kari, walking past Eirlys to tug at Saheel’s arm. SAHEEL DID NOT SPEAK OUT.

Saheel had clouded over something fierce. He was generating wrinkles that would likely last him the rest of his life.

“Get off!” he said, leaping back. “Brother, just because Sean called me doesn’t mean I killed him! I hadn’t spoken to him in literal decades, and our reunion was due… this weekend…”

Eirlys turned to him, eyes glinting with disapproval behind her glasses.

She said, “You never said you knew the Irish man.”

“I didn’t think it was important,” said Saheel, wiping his brow. “It took me a while to even recognise it was him. Like I said, it’s been decades! We only hung out a little together in undergraduate, for crying out loud!”

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“Easy,” said Eirlys. “Analyse to understand. You don’t remember killing him?”

“If I did, I would tell you,” said Saheel.

Kari sniggered, the same way Tarquin’s grandson would upon duping someone with a whoopie cushion.

THIS SEAN ALMOST CERTAINLY DIED BY YOUR HAND.

“No!” said Saheel, priestly façade cracking as he backed away. He bumped up against the wall. “Stop looking at me, brothers and sisters!”

Eirlys shrugged. “There’s no evidence to support Kari’s claims. Relax.”

“I’m trying to, sister,” said Saheel. “Just, lord, get that thing away from me!”

“Kari,” snapped Haralda, “I expect you to stop harrassing Saheel and return to your podium.”

Tarquin always ran a meter in the back of his mind that tracked if anybody wasn’t participating in a conversation – it was one of the ways he tried to make himself helpful. A blip on his subconscious radar tugged him in the direction of Faust.

The man slumped on the steps, elbows digging into his knees, head limp in his hands. He was breathing unevenly, through the gaps in his teeth. Whatever would cheer our moody Faust up? Why, a great big smile from his teammate Tarquin!

Tarquin patted him on the shoulder and asked, “Are you okay there, Faust?”

The undertaker mumbled something into his cupped hands. So, he was playing hard to cheer up. What else was new?

Tarquin perched himself on the adjacent step and said, “Come on now, what’s eating at you? I’m here to listen, aren’t I?”

Faust glared at him, eyes red and sore. “Tarquin, you can fuck off with that faux-sympathy of yours. I’m not sure what’s worse: whether you think it’s convincing, or whether you don’t but you just do it anyway.”

“Well, now,” said Tarquin, loosening the tight zip on his borrowed faux-fur jacket, “That’s quite a rude way to talk to a friend who’s trying to help, isn’t it?”

“For fuck’s sake, grandpa,” spat Faust. “Read the mood a little! Here I am dealing with the potential prospect of having offed myself, and here you are offering me a hug and shouting a ridiculous team name!”

“Well,” said Tarquin, tightening the screws on his bolted-on smile to suppress the wave of negativity rising within him, “The way I see it, you look quite alive to—”

“I said leave me the fuck alone!” said Faust. “What don’t you get about that? I’m NOT playing hard to get, I’m NOT trying to attract a rescuer, and I DON’T want to hear your saccharine ideas about what is and isn’t possible!”

“Come on now—” Tarquin unconsciously laid a hand on Faust’s back.

“You’re still doing it!” Faust writhed away, like he’d just touched a hot stove. “You don’t know anything about my life. Facing down an ostrich with a barrel of formaldehyde did not redeem me, make me complete, whole again, tick off a box in my character arc, nor did it make us friends!”

“I understand,” said Tarquin, not really understanding. Sure, he’d had a few spats with his son when he was a teenager, but they’d smoothed it over alright, hadn’t they? Everybody just pretended to be okay. That was how conflicts worked.

“I just want you to know I’m here to listen,” Tarquin added.

“And I just want you to know that you’re not helping,” said Faust. His volume had gradually, angrily risen to the level of a normal conversation. His beard bristled, the hairs standing on end.

“Connie,” shouted Faust, gesturing at Tarquin with only one word of instruction: “Please!”

Connie, who had been watching from a distance – rather shirking her duty as a teammate, Tarquin thought – strode over at once.

“Come on, man,” she said, shifting from side to side uncomfortably. “He needs some space.”

“But we have the word counter,” protested Tarquin. “We have time to delve into this subplot—”

“My life is NOT a fucking subplot,” said Faust, flashing him a look of hatred that only the worst of Tarquin’s clients gave him. “My feelings are NOT fuel to make YOUR team look more fucking interesting!”

He erupted into a stream of tears, but unlike when Tarquin cried, it didn’t seem to impede his ability to communicate or think in any way. In fact, like this, he almost looked more justified.

“Come on, Tarquin.” Connie clicked her fingers. “You gotta know when to hit it or quit it, man.”

So Tarquin shrugged, true feelings locked down behind the armour of his smile, patted his knees and buzzed happily back to his podium alongside Connie. But something about it had lit a fire in his chest, and words that he would never say sprung up uninvited. Why did Faust think he could go around just trashing the carefully established harmony of their team? How could he wallow in despair so un-self-consciously, to the point where he actively sabotaged how interesting their team was to the audience? Couldn’t he see how he was throwing Tarquin under the bus?

No more.

Tarquin clenched his fists. All other people — teammates or not — being transient, the only thing that mattered was family. It was time to start being selfish.