He'd never said that before. Well, not to Warren. Most nights, sometimes with Jonathon, he just went off to the Cock without a word.

So Warren, too, was surprised and almost pleased. But wasn't going for no pint with the old man tonight. No way.

'Told Tessa I'd be round, Dad. Sorry.'

The old man looked quite relieved. Warren had watched him tramping off up the track, eager to wash the dust out of his throat. So eager he hadn't bothered to clean up the mess in the hearth and so hadn't noticed anything he shouldn't.

Stupid git.

Warren got himself a can of Black Label from the fridge and went back to the fireplace to pull out them old bricks.

He'd got the box out, was squatting on the hearth, dusting off, when he heard Jonathon's car. He'd tucked the box under his arm – bloody heavy, it was, too – and got it out through the back door and round the back of the barn, where he'd hidden it in the bottom of an old water-butt.

And gone up to his room and waited for Jonathon to piss off.

The way he saw it, you didn't seal up an oak box like this and stash it away in a secret compartment in the chimney unless there was something pretty damn valuable inside. And, as he'd discovered, just about anything a bit old was valuable these days.

Warren had a mate, a guy who got rid of stuff, no questions asked. He could be looking at big money here on the box alone, it was in good nick, this box, sealed up warm and dry for centuries. Warren looked at the box and saw- a new amplifier for the band. He looked harder and saw this second-hand Stratocaster guitar. Felt the Strat hanging low round his hip, its neck slippy with sweat.

The curfew bell was tolling in the distance. His dad had sunk a swift pint and plodded off up the tower to do his night duty, silly old bugger.

Why do you keep on doing that. Dad? Don't pay, do it? And no bugger takes any notice 'part from setting their watches.'