It’s a nice day out. The sun is shining, birds are singing, Bayfield’s microclimate is behaving as erratically as usual. Joey’s out on her skates. There aren’t any puddles, which is good, because puddles are hard to navigate. The sticking plasters on her knees are testament to that. It was only raining a couple of days ago. The pavement leading up to the mall is all long and straight and smooth. It’s her favourite place to go zooming off from whichever guardian is currently looking after her. She likes taking her hair out of the tight French braids Nikki puts it in and letting it stream out behind her.

The skates are too small for her. Like most of her clothes, they belonged to someone else beforehand; one of her fostered brothers or sisters, since moved on to different homes or greener pastures. They’re going to give her blisters if she keeps going at this rate.

“Slow down, kid!”

Joey can hear the command but barely acquiesces to it. The girl panting to keep up with her is from the drop-in centre. She’s meant to be looking after her, but as Joey has patiently explained time and time again, she doesn’t need looking after. Especially not by some chubby redneck stupid enough to loose her husband somewhere.

There’s a crowd gathered outside the entrance to the mall. Some of them are lazily clapping. Others are chewing gum with barely concealed disdain. Joey elbows her way to the front, which is not hard since she’s on skates and is mostly made up of elbows. (It’s her age.) The man performing for the crowds likes milkshake and can do real magic. Joey knows this because she’s met him before. She waits for what seems like an appropriate lull in the act and yells: “hey, Tatter!”

The teenage girls behind her take this to be a rib at his appearance and guffaw.

Tats probably deserves to have his appearence guffawed at. At least he's not wearing the shirt that's mostly gun tape. But he does look a little down and out today. His red-gold hair is dingy and pulled back in a ponytail (secured with a blue rubber band) and he's got a serious five o'clock shadow going on. His shirt and denim cut-offs are seriously ripped up, the hems looking rather like someone put them through a blender or a paper shredder.

Nonetheless it's a lovely day, the sun is glinting off his earrings and he's made a fair bit of money. Too much money really. Leastways the crowd is too big. The police tend to leave people alone even if they haven't got licenses (and face it, when was the last time Tatters had a license to do anything) but they don't like it if too many people start standing around.

So Tatters is about ready to stop anyway when Josephine - she of the peanut-butter and chocolate milkshake - shows up calling his name.

He flashes her a big smile and moves towards her, squishing past a considerably over-weight family of American tourists so he can say hello.

Then he sees someone else entirely, behind Josephine.

It's too his credit that he doesn't miss a beat. The smile remains exactly how it was, and he just says, "Hello, Miss Josephine," like everything is just peachy.

What he himself is thinking is something along the lines of 'fuckfuckfuckfuckfucking bloody hell bugger SHIT.'

He can hear his mother's voice in his head. He can even imagine her - staring at him over her square glasses and squeezing a lemon into her iced tea.

And saying something along the lines of, "Mark Withers, you did what? To who? And she was how old?"

“Hiya Tatter!” Josephine says cheerfully, blissfully unaware of the subtle social situation going on above her head. Tatter’s her friend and having an older friend, especially one like Tatter, is cool. Having one like Jessie is less so. Jessie sweats too much in the heat and doesn’t let Josephine play with the boys who’re older than her.

"This be my friend, Jessie," she says, skating backwards (it’s hard in skates too small for her and therefore impressive) to grab onto Jessie’s sweaty hand. "Jessie, this be my friend Tatter." ‘Friend’ is a bit of an exaggeration – they’ve met once before – but Joey wants to impress the underage strumpet currently playing big sister.

"Aye," says Jessie. She’s gone a distinct shade of green. "We’ve met."

She doesn’t meet his eyes.

She can’t yet, not until she can tell what he thinks.

A serious of rapid calculations on Tatter's part - proof that his mind is working more clearly then usaul (or possibly that shock and a strong sense of self-preservation has startled him into thought) - lead to the conclusion that he should be veryvery careful if he doesn't want this situation to blow up in his face.

"Yeah, we've met, Josie," he says, quietly (while he sorts out his accent). He figures if they're going to be friends then he can call her by some nickname. Josie is the first that comes to mind.

He's keeping his accent carefully transatlantic, like a ship stuck permanently somewhere on the way from Montreal to Southampton.

His narrow eyes fix on Josephine's - for lack of any better place to look - and he flails around for something to say.

"It's been a while though," he adds. Which is grand explanation to Jessica as to why his accent has gone all North American.

"Oh, the doctor reckons about twenty eight weeks," Jessie says lightly. Pregnant women get eerily good at chronology.

She manages to finally meet his eyes and sees to her delight that he’s looking just as scared as she feels. Well, good. He deserves to be scared. She knows it’s not all his fault, of course, but she’s gone through a lot of trouble to find him and now he’s barely saying anything at all.

Jessie can feel the smaller hand in hers’ tugging. "Jessie," Josephine says, still beaming from Tatter’s new nickname for her, "Jessie, there’s Louise and her mom over there, can I go shopping with them? They live in the same trailer park as us. Please, Jessie." Jessica doesn’t take much persuading. She lets go of Josephine’s hand, tells her to be good and makes threats as to what will happen to her if she’s not, and watches her skate off in silence.

Then she turns back to Tatter, arms folded over her chest, which today is covered with a struggling vest top. "So." She’s trying to keep her voice easy but it’s bordering on the hysterical. "Fancy meetin’ you here."

"Je..." Tatters starts, letting his accent slide back English now that Josephine's out of the way. The name dies before it reaches completion and he has to try again. "Jessie," he manages. "I found you. No. Sorry. You found me. Do you know how many people you almost got killed?" The words are almost random, irrelevant. "Your brother's been Glasgow kissin' everyone from there to here trying to find you, y'know."

She could have told Thomas, he thinks, but then he realises if she'd done that it would be his head getting bashed in. So he's rather pleased she didn't.

There's the rapidly impending problem of... well... anyway.

But for right now, he's just really pleased to see her again. More pleased then he would have though he'd be when he said goodbye to her just under twenty-eight weeks before.

So pleased that he steps forward and squishes her into a hug. It's not a romantic hug. Just a 'good to see you again' kind of hug, the sort you can't really read much into and he's probably drowning her in the smell of cigarettes and incense and weed and probably some sweat too.

"What took you so long?"

"What…" The hysteria she was bordering on the edge of has overflowed. Jessie steps away from the tenuous hug and it’s not hard to do so when they have to hug ever so gently to avoid squashing the baby. The cigarette smoke that hangs in Tatter’s hair can’t be good for him, anyway.

"What took me so long?"

She’s crying.

She had no idea Thomas was looking for her and she’s half glad and half scared that he is. At least it means that someone out there cares. The fear’s about what he’s going to do to her – and what he’s going to do to Tatter – when he finds out why she ran away.

She’s also gone bright red.

"What took me so long? I wasn’t expectin’ t’have to follow you out here. Yeh didn’t exactly leave a contact number. Ah had to get t’gether enough money firs’ to get t’England, then enough to fly from there to Canada an’ for the bus from the airport to here. Oh, and I’m pregnant with your babby," she adds as a throwaway while still shaking like the face of a speaker. The child didn’t slow down her journey but it certainly made it more difficult.

"Shh, Jessie, stop crying," Tatters tells her, softly. "It's okay. Everything's fine."

Yes, the traditional words used by helpless guys in attempts to comfort sobbing girls, throughout history and across the globe.

The nice thing about Jessica - or the problem with her - Tatters realises, is that when she says she's pregnant with your baby, it's no good saying 'how can you be sure'. Because she's the sort who'll know exactly.

He's also not about to bother denying it.

"You could have asked someone," he points out, reasonably enough. There were loads of people in Glasgow who could have told her how to get ahold of him. Especially if she got Tam to help with his special, knee-cap smashing techniques. "But it hardly matters. You're here now, ain't you?"

The whole thing is hardly a social situation that you're prepared for. It's not on the basic 'akward encounters you may have' course. Mostly he's just thinking, 'fuck, I can't believe I did this, what kind of a sick bastard am I, she's what, seventeen? Is she even seventeen?'

But he manages to pull himself together and says, in a completely rational tone, "why don't we just go into the mall and I'll buy you a coffee or something."

While Tatter’s words are no doubt meant to be comforting, Jessie wails and buries herself into his hair. He’s being a lot nicer than she was expecting. She’s gone over the scene a couple of times in her head and it’s never gone like this. She hasn’t cried in the rehearsals. She’s meant to be the adult here, not because she’s older but because she’s the one in the adult situation, and she’s meant to be cool and collected while Tatter does the panicking.

"I’m sorry," she cries, drawing out the ‘yyyy’ in a sob.

The baby is very definitely his. If there was even the possibility it was someone else’s she would’ve stayed in Scotland and let Tam bash the guy’s kneecaps in. On the other hand… she then wouldn’t have been able to travel half way around the world because she’d be stuck at home with a baby and a babydaddy.

While the journey has mostly been interesting bits of it have been elevated to fun.

Jessie’s been serially monogamous since thirteen. If nothing else she’s good enough at maths to work out that Tatter is the father. This is the sort of maths you learn growing up on a council estate.

"Too much caffeine’s bad for the baby," she says, wiping away her tears and drawing herself up. Here’s a chance to show Tatter how mature she is by demonstrating how well she’s taking care of their kid. "But I’ll have a hot milk if you’re offering."

She's sophisticated like that.

Tatter lets her cry into his hair. "It's okay," he assures her, again, although he's not quite sure whether it is or it isn't. And she's probably just overwhelmed crying as opposed to miserable crying. He hopes. "All right, hot milk it is."

He slings an arm around her shoulders and steers her carefully towards the door of the mall. And he even goes ahead of her and gets the door for her and then follows her in, his hand hovering around the small of her back as he moves towards the Starbucks. He's being very gentlemanly. His mother would be proud.

Except for the circumstances, of course. Oh gawd, she's going to kill him if she finds out...

Tats kills that thought because there are more pressing issues at hand. He's not too sure where this conversation is meant to start, though, so he waits to let Jessie talk while they wait in line.

"Your accent's go' all queerie."

It's not the most obvious thing to comment on in the cacophony of strange that is their meeting and meeting like this. It's an example of the human urge to pick up on the smallest bits of the bigger picture, usually the ones the painter didn’t want you to see, because they’re just placeholders and look he’s painting over them already.

Jessie says it thoughtfully and whilst ignoring her earlier outburst. She’s feeling in control again.

Partially in control.

As in control as a pregnant illegal immigrant seventeen year old can be.

"It's hanging around all these Canadians," Tatters suggests. He steps up to the counter and flashes the 'barista' a lopsided grin. "You wanted hot milk, yeah? A hot milk then, and an iced tea."

He fishes around in the pockets of his jeans and counts out the correct sum of money in loonies and small change. He's considerably faster then most people at counting change - he does have practise, after all.

The threat of silence looms. Conversation seems akward.

"So... Did you miss me," he asks. He's genuinely curious as to if she did. It had, after all, been a sort of... elongated one night stand. There was no particular reason for her to miss him. Then again, they had parted quite amiably. So there was no reason not to.

"Miss…" Jessie’s taken aback at the cheek of him but then again that was why she liked him in the first place, wasn’t it. "Well. Everythin’ would’ve been easier if you’d still be around, aye."

They’re not talking about the baby. Or rather, she’s talking about the baby while he neatly sidesteps around it – literally, as she reaches over for her milk, because it’s causing quite a bump. Jessie’s a wee bit anxious but then again maybe it’s just taking a while to sink in. He hasn’t questioned his paternity, or tried to run away yet, and these are both good signs. It took a while to sink in when she first found out too.

The seats are nasty plastic things, not the overplump armchairs you find in the more upmarket brand of coffee chain. Jessie can pull one of them back for herself and does so. Tatter can get his own damn chair. "How’ve you been?" she asks, keeping it light.

Tatters takes this as a 'no, I didn't miss you.' Just because it would have been easier to have him nearby - certainly it would have saved on the cost of travel - doesn't mean that she actually wanted him around.

He takes his iced tea off the counter and follows her over to the table, pulling out one of the cheap plastic chairs and sitting down with a sort of slouchy elegance. "I've been all right," he admits, feeling a bit guilty about the fact that he's been perfectly fine and having a grand old time while she's been pregnant.

He may be side-stepping the issue, but it keeps coming right along and trying to trip him. There's only so much avoiding he can do, anyway. He's just not sure what the hell he's meant to say. What is a person meant to say in such a situation? Are you supposed to apologise? It's possible, but he's not going to. Whatever it may be, it's not his fault. Not any more then it is hers, except that he's supposed to be the responsible one.

Perhaps he's meant to get down on one knee and propose marriage. His mum would probably say it was the right and proper thing to do.

Where to next? A cheerful 'well, I’m having your baby, thought you might want to know'? That is... if he knows it’s a baby. Maybe he just thinks she’s gotten fatter.

"So. Ah. Cheers." She smiles at him anxiously, a 'whoops' type of smile. She wants to know what he thinks but Tatter’s just being his usual self, not particularly concerned about anything that’s not money, drugs or sex.

This is the father of her child. He’s going to balls it up.

"How’ve yeh been? Anyone special in yer life?" They’ve talked about her and they’ve talked about nothing in particular. Now it’s catch up time.

Tatters is nonchalantly sipping his iced tea (well, he'd like it be nonchalantly) and staring (and you can't really stare nonchalantly, can you?) are the table in order not to stare at Jessie. "I've been fine," he tells her. He pokes ice cubes with his straw. "Alive and all that. Er. No. No, Mai..." he shrugs, "I had a girlfriend, but she moved to California."

One of the dangers of amicable seperations, he's starting to see, is that they're always around to come back and get you. He makes a mental note to avoid L.A. in the future.

He grins slightly and somewhat feebly. "Unless you wanna count me flatmate. He's definitely special and certainly in my life. But I guess that's not what you mean."

He hasn't done country dancing since university but he surely seems to remember the key bits - especially the parts that involve weaving around things, be they other dancers or... issues.

Jessie giggles weakly. She sips her milk. She looks at Tatter.

"No, not really. Look, sorry. Ah’ve been thinkin’ for an age now what I’d say to you if I met yeh. Trust me, bursting into tears wasn’t part o’the plan."

Here we are. This is Jessie in control again, the way she’s used to it – although there was never a chance of controlling Tatter. He was grown-up, brother’s-best-friend, travels-a-lot English. He was exciting and they were drunk a lot of the time.

Wait, what was that? He’s had another girlfriend? No. Calm down.

"Havin’ your bairn, thought you ought to know." It comes out like a note on the fridge door. "So, you can be a part of his life, or not, it’s really up to you, here’s my phone number –" she’s been scribbling on a napkin all this time, zeros rounded like ‘o’s, slightly bent over the table as she stands up, "thank you for the milk, please give me a call some time."

Tatters gives the napkin a long, suspicious look. Then he makes it disappear. He's wondering how likely it is that he ever dial that number. Not very likely, he suspects. And it isn't that he doesn't want to be 'part of his life'. It's really that Tatter is just a horrible coward and the idea of having a kid is pretty terrifying. His brain sort of shorts out every time he thinks about it. All thought turns into endless lines of 'fuckfuckfuck.'

He's not even going to try and think of the fact that Jessie will eventually meet up with her brother. Bayfield - like any other city - is a village. They'll run into each other sooner or later. And then Tam will come and try and kill Tatters. It will be annoying at the very least, although Tatters isn't entirely convinced of Tam's actual ability to kill him.

"Hey, Jessie," he says, as she's getting up to go. "Are you okay? For money and somewhere to stay and all that?"

He may be a coward but he's not utterly irresponsible.

"Yes," she replies, more coolly than even decorum demands. "I’ll be fine, ta." Quite literally, big fat liar. She’s living in a squat taking odd and odder jobs; she’s living off fruit supermarkets have thrown away and attending a clinic that doubles as a welfare-dependant manufacturing line. This is not the sensible time for pride but it’s the time Jessie decides on.

"Oh, and," she rummages in her purse, "here. Thought you might wanna see them." There’s nobody to point bits out to Tats – look, here’s the head, here’s the foot, and awww, he’s sucking his thumb. Tats will have to decipher the grainy copies for himself because Jessie’s said goodbye and is marching down the strip while trying not to cry.

Stupid hormones.