We completed dressing outside the car, in the garage, shaking bits of glass out of our clothes as we did so. I had the presence of mind to put these fragments back into the car, and spread the glass more evenly over the seat, removing the shard-shadow of Marion from the cracked green leather (there was, I noticed with a little pride and considerable horror, a small stain there — probably more Marion than me, to be honest — but there was nothing I could do about that beyond wiping it with my hanky). We closed the garage, grabbed our bikes and headed for the hills.

It was a week before dad discovered the disaster scene in the garage. He never did work it out.

Lewis threatened to tell him, but that was only because I'd been stupid enough to blab to my brother, and then been incensed to discover he'd screwed Marion too, twice; on the two previous weekends she'd been down. I immediately threatened to tell the police because Lewis was older than she was and that made it Statue-Tory Rape (I'd heard of this on TV); he said if I did that he'd tell dad about the car… and so there we were, me barely a teenager and already arguing over a woman with my brother.

"It was good to meet you again, Janice," Lewis said, shaking Aunt Janice's hand, then taking her elbow in the other hand, kissing her on the cheek. "You should get in touch with Mary and Ken again; I'm sure they'd love to hear from you."

"I will," she said, smiling, then fastened the collar of her glove-leather jacket.

Lewis turned to me. "Bro; sure we can't tempt you?"

"Positive," I said. "Got a lot of work to do. Enjoy yourselves."

"Aw, come on, ya big poof," Gav said, breathing beer. He put one arm round my shoulders and hugged. From the amount of pressure involved, I gathered he was trying to fold me in half. 'Sno even wan yet!"

"Yes, Gavin, the night is yet senile; but I have to go. You have fun, all right?"

"Aye, okay."

"Taxi!" shouted Lewis.

We were standing on Byres Road, outside Randan's, which would be closing soon. Lewis, some guy he'd been friendly with at Uni, a girl who may or may not have been Lewis's girlfriend, and Gav had all decided to head for some bar in the centre of town. I had demurred, as had Janice.

"Prentice; see you at the weekend." Lewis hesitated as he pulled the taxi door open for the maybe-girlfriend, then came up to me, hugged me. "Good to see you, little brother."

"Yeah; you take care," I said, patting his back. "All the best."

"Thanks."

They left in the taxi; Janice and I walked up Byres Road to where she'd left her car. It started to rain. "Maybe I will take that lift," I told her.

"Good," she said. She pulled a small umbrella from her shoulder bag, opened it as the rain came on heavier. She handed it to me. "Here; you'd better hold this; you're taller." She took my arm and we had to lean towards each other to keep even our heads dry under the little flimsy umbrella.

She smelled of Obsession and smoke. She, Gav and I had gone to meet Lewis, holding court in the small dressing room. Later we had all gone to the downstairs bar, then Lewis had announced he wanted to keep on drinking after they called time. Janice had had a couple of fizzy waters, and seemed totally sober, so I reckoned it was safe to accept a lift.

"You don't really like your brother that much, do you?" she asked.

"Yes, I do," I told her. The traffic hissed by, heading up Byres Road. "He just… annoys me sometimes."

"I thought you seemed a bit reluctant when he suggested going back home this weekend."

I shrugged. "Oh, that's not Lewis; that's dad. We aren't speaking."

"Not speaking?" She sounded surprised; maybe amused. "Why not?"

"Religious differences," I said. It had become my stock reply.

"Oh dear." We turned onto Ruthven Street, away from the bright shop fronts and traffic. "Still a bit further to go," she said.

"Where are you parked?"

"Athole Gardens."

"Really? Not a good place to live if you had a lisp."

She laughed, squeezed my arm.

Hello, I thought. I switched the umbrella from one hand to the other and put my arm lightly round her waist. "I hope I'm not taking you out of your way. I mean, I could walk. It isn't far."

"No problem, Prentice," she said, and put her arm round my waist. Hmm. I thought. She gave a small laugh. "You were always thoughtful." But somehow, the way she said it, I thought, No, she's just being friendly.

We got into the Fiesta; she dumped the brolly in the back. She put both hands on the wheel, then turned to me. "Listen, I've got some… some papers Rory left with me. I did mean to send them to your father, but to be honest I lost track of them, and then didn't find them again until mum died and I was clearing stuff out… I don't suppose it's anything… you know, that the family needs, is it?"

I scratched my head. "Dad has all Rory's papers, I think."

"It's just old poems and notes; that sort of thing." She started the car; we put our belts on. She took a pair of glasses from her shoulder bag. "All a bit confusing, really."

"Hmm," I said. "I suppose dad might want a look at them. Wouldn't mind looking at them myself, come to think of it."

"Do you want to pick them up now?" She looked at me, her round face soft-looking in the orange blush of the sodium vapour. Her hair was like a curly halo. "It isn't far."

"Yeah, okay. I guess so."

I watched her face. She smiled as we pulled away. "You sound just like Rory sometimes."

Janice Rae was the last person known to have seen Uncle Rory, one evening in Glasgow. Rory had been staying with friends in London for the previous fortnight. He had talked to his agent and seen some television people about doing some travel series, but whatever deal he'd been trying to set up with the BBC, it had fallen through.

At the time Rory was still — just — living off Traps, which was attracting a trickle of money even then, when he'd spent everything he'd got for later travel books and occasional articles. He was sharing a flat with an old pal called Andy Nichol who worked in local government; according to Andy, Rory had moped around their flat for a couple of days, shut in his room mostly, supposedly writing, then when Andy had come back from work one day, Rory had asked if he could borrow Andy's motorbike for the night. Andy had given him the keys, and Rory had set off; he'd stopped briefly at Janice Rae's mum's place, and said something about having an idea; some way of saving the project he'd been working on; adding some new ingredient.

He'd given Janice the folder that she now wanted to give me, eight years later, and then rode off into the sunset, never to be seen again.

Her flat was on Crow Road, not all that far away, down near Jordanhill. As she showed me into the place, down a hall lined with old movie posters, I asked her if she'd ever heard Grandma Margot use the saying: away the Crow Road (or the Craw Rod, if she was being especially broad-accented that day). It meant dying; being dead. "Aye, he's away the crow road," meant "He's dead."

Janice looked away from me when I said those words, mumbled about the papers and went to get them.

Idiot, I told myself. I stood in the living room; it was full of heavy old furniture that looked as though it belonged somewhere else, and some limited edition modern prints. On a sideboard, there was a photograph of Janice Rae's dead mother, and another of her daughter Marion and her husband. Marion was a policewoman in Aberdeen. I shook my head, grinning and feeling very old and very young at once.

"Here," Aunt Janice said. She handed me a cardboard folder stuffed with loose papers. On the spine it said CR in black felt-tip. The folder was burgundy but the spine was faded to grey.