“I don’t believe it. I don’t bloody believe it,” Cain muttered for the seven hundredth time as we trundled up the A1M towards Stevenage, ancestral home of the Shepney clan. Or at least, the branch of it currently slumped in the passenger seat of my knackered old Transit van, the purchase of which had been a lone rebellion against the forces of Cool, otherwise known as my mother. “How could my own mother do this to me?”
I didn’t say that in my experience, there’s very little some mothers won’t do to humiliate their sons. All while firmly believing it’s somehow for their own good. “Maybe there’s a lookalike who’s managed to convince her he’s you?”
“What, and the same guy arranged for me to get kidnapped from her house, stripped naked and left in your bed like one of those teddy bears you m
