"So Father," asked Mrs McCarthy from the kitchen sink, "Who do you think is responsible?"

"Mm?" The priest looked up from his book with a confused expression.

"For Inspector Sullivan's face, of course!"

"Oh..." Father Brown trailed off, deep in thought, "I don't know. I didn't like to ask. The Inspector does not often approve of my input."

There was a pause.

"Mrs McCarthy, there is obviously something you are dying to tell me-"

The parish secretary sat down at the table with the tea set and began spitting out information at one hundred miles an hour.

"Well you know I'm not one for gossip, but Mariah Hall from the WI went in to the police station this morning to report that her Lewis had had a prize lamb stolen, and while she was there she was talking to Sullivan and asked him where he'd got that cut on his face and that black eye. First off, he didn't want to tell her - said it was none of her business, and not too politely she said. But after a bit of prodding, he told her he'd fallen down the stairs. Well, I've never heard of anyone getting a black eye from falling down stairs and not getting hurt anywhere else."

Mrs M gave a quick nod, and sipped quickly at her tea. Father Brown was nodding slowly.

"A fall like that would mean broken bones, or at least pain in some of his limbs. Even he'd hurt ribs or something, we'd have seen him moving more cautiously or gingerly. This story does not add up."

"Oh come on Father!" Mrs McCarthy exclaimed exasperatedly, "Somebody must have hit him! There's no other logical way for him to get injured like that!"

Father Brown agreed, but he was stumped. Inspector Sullivan was... Inspector Sullivan. He had his flaws, but he genuinely couldn't think of anyone who would attack him and get away with it. And there was another issue plaguing his mind.

"Sid went to talk to the Inspector today," He said to himself more than Mrs McCarthy.

"What for?"

"I don't know," Father Brown admitted, "But he was very upset when he came out."

"Do you still want me over tonight?"

Sid's low, rumbly voice was barely decipherable through the crackling telephone.

"Only if you stop insisting that this was your fault." Sullivan replied, perched on the edge of desk so he could keep one eye on the open office door. He nervously tapped a pen on the side of a desk - an anxious rhythm Goodfellow had been trying to ignore all day.

"But it was my-"

"It was not. I told you, he probably would have looked it up in the police records or something anyway. He'd have found me sooner or later..."

Sullivan's voice trembled and trailed off.

Sid weighed up his options.

"Look, maybe I shouldn't stay tonight. Given all-"

"No- no please, please stay."

The panicked slip in Sullivan's voice made Sid realise that the man didn't want to be alone. He worried for the rest of the day.

Work had been painful, but the fear of an empty house far usurped any of the unpleasantness of Kembleford Station. Sullivan was feeling remarkably shaken by the end of the day, and when Sid arrived he was greatly relieved. The house just didn't feel as safe as it always had before.

Sid decided that in case Sullivan got frightened at the idea it might be his dad back for round two, he announced his presence as he entered.

"IT'S SID-NEY!" He roared.

There was a crash and some cursing from the kitchen. He hurtled in to find Sullivan on his hands and knees grumbling, while gathering up shattered pieces of china.

"That was a nice plate," he was grumbling, "Expensive too."

"I'll get you some new ones!" Sid offered enthusiastically. "And new bowls, cups, a whole new set."

"No-"

"It's no bother-"

"Just, no-"

"They're not stolen, if that's what you're insinuating-"

"I'd prefer not to eat off of radioactive plates," Sullivan quipped dryly.

He looked up at Sid with a sarcastic grin.

"If you don't mind."

Sid's jaw landed on the tiles.

"Who told you that?"

"Oh, just a little bird."

Almost immediately after tea Sullivan went to bed - understandable, he'd nearly dropped off several times during tea. Sid stayed up, throwing a few sticks on the fire and listening to a race on the radio, watching the shadows dance in the last wisps of golden sunlight.

The evenings were getting much shorter, and he had to admit that as much as he loved life in the caravan, this- log fire, armchair, horses on radio- it was all very nice. He could definitely get used to it.

Another nice aspect was of course the man upstairs.

Even though the radio was on, he strained to hear the sounds the man was making; the water splashing into the washbasin as he washed his face and brushed his teeth, the soft footsteps of him walking barefoot to the bathroom and back, the rattling of him drawing the thick curtains.

He could picture him getting into the old cast iron bed, lying on his side with his leg pointed out towards Sid, or on his back with his arm above him on the pillow.

He would be wearing a pair of his faded pyjamas - which ones?

Striped ones, maybe. The blue and white ones, or grey, black and red ones. Maybe the old green pair, with the threadbare collar. Or perhaps the navy pair, that looked relatively newer- Sid had never seen them on, but he'd spied them in the cupboard.

He'd got his own drawer now, and he'd brought his two red and white pairs. 'Toothpaste PJs', that's what Bunty had called him the night he'd been staying over at Montague and they'd had their midnight feast (the kind they'd both always dreamed of as kids - although not the bit of being sick after eating too much fresh cream and crystallised pineapple).

Sid stubbed out his cigarette in the brown ceramic ashtray with the black rim, and made his way up to Eddie's room.

Or his room, maybe.

It had all got very domestic all of a sudden.

Just got to keep an eye on him, Sid told himself.

Sullivan was asleep, and Sid was finally able to have a good look at his battered features. God, they were bad. They must be agonising.

Everytime he looked at him, they seemed to get worse.

He imagined the last night's events for the umpteenth time that day, and his fists automatically clenched.

He wouldn't be getting any more black eyes.