‘Well, we don’t know, do we?’ said Eddy, goading. ‘That’s the raison d’etre for having the guns, isn’t it?’

‘No.’ Malki held firm. ‘No guns, man.’

‘Take the fucking gun.’ Eddy shoved it back at his hand.

Malki dodged him. ‘Man, I’m a lover not a fighter.’

Eddy was furious. ‘What if he tries to get away? What ye gonnae do? Fuck him back into the room?’

‘Keep your money, man.’

Eddy and Pat looked at Malki. He was not going to change his mind. He took a step to leave but Pat blocked his way and looked at Eddy. ‘Come on.’

Eddy was bewildered, unable to understand anyone passing up the opportunity to threaten a man with a gun.

‘We need to phone,’ said Pat reasonably.

Doing his laugh that wasn’t a laugh Eddy turned his back on them, sliding the gun into his trouser pocket.

Pat nodded Malki through to the living room, where he was treated to the sight of Shugie sitting on the edge of the settee looking at the racing pages of meets long past. Shugie looked the junkie boy up and down, huffed at the obvious inadequacies of his replacement. But Malki minded his manners. ‘Right?’

Shugie didn’t answer.

Pat brought him to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Go up and watch the door til we get back, OK?’

‘It’s the old guy, yeah?’

‘Yeah,’ said Pat, keen to get away.

‘Has he eaten anything?’

‘Bit of bread, can of juice.’

Malki whipped a family bag of wine gums out of his trackie pocket. ‘Grub’s up!’

‘Aye, very good.’ Pat smiled, glad Malki was here to lighten the mood, glad he found the place as disgusting as Pat did. ‘Get your arse up there.’

Malki stopped on the second stair and turned back. ‘Same rate as last night?’

Pat nodded. ‘Aye.’

Malki grinned and jogged up five stairs.

A knock at the front door made them both freeze. They looked at each other. In a flurry of silent motion Malki ran to the top of the stairs and Pat bolted through the living room to the kitchen door, stopping when he was flat against it. Eddy followed him, cowering in next to the stack of bin bags.

‘Fuck!’ Pat whispered.

‘Malki?’ hissed Eddy.

Pat nodded and pointed at the ceiling as Shugie looked in through the kitchen door. The knock came again, three formal raps on the front door. Shugie raised his eyebrows.

‘Answer it and get them the fuck away frae here,’ ordered Eddy.

Shugie looked confused. ‘What if it’s someone who wants to come in?’

‘Don’t fuckin’ let them.’

Shugie nodded and shuffled off to the door.

They listened, breathless, as the door creaked open on unaccustomed hinges in the distant hallway. A low rumble addressed a question to Shugie which he answered in the affirmative. The voice, an official voice, told him something. After a pause Shugie said ‘no’.

The door creaked loudly and Eddy and Pat both breathed out, realising too late that the door had not shut but had been opened wider, that steps were coming into the hallway, into the house, towards them.

Eddy opened the kitchen door and they shuffled gracelessly into the garden, crouching down under the kitchen window, praying the Lexus was low enough not to be seen through the window. They held their knees tight to their chests, listening to the long grass hissing spitefully around them, hearing through the broken window as footsteps came all the way into the kitchen. Three sets.

‘And does anyone live here with yourself, Mr Parry?’

Eddy and Pat looked at each other. Polis voice. Shugie had the fucking polis in his kitchen. Pat buried his head in his knees, looking down at the grass flattened below him. He shut his eyes and saw the sunshine die on the girl in the hospital bed, her hair slid across the pillow into ash.

It was a young polis, high voice, just new to it: ‘… regarding an incident at Brian’s Bar on the weekend of the fourth?’

‘Nah, nah.’ Shugie’s rumbling smoker’s voice. ‘I wiz out of it, and ah, I cannae just remember.’

‘Well, Mr Parry,’ said the polis. ‘Judging from the overwhelming and pungent stench of urine in your domicile, it is my firm conclusion that you do indeed have fuck all recollection of that particular incident.’ The second polis was laughing softly, repeating the line: ‘stench of urine’.

‘And so, Mr Parry we will be getting the fuck out of this disgusting abode pronto.’ He stopped for a titter himself. ‘Thanking you, but offers of tea and biscuits will be declined.’

‘And biscuits!’ echoed the giggly second polis.

Shugie said nothing. He stood and took the abuse until a sudden thump came from the kitchen ceiling.

The polis shifted their feet. ‘Is there someone else in this house?’ It was the other one talking. Shugie didn’t answer him.

‘Mr Parry?’

Shugie mumbled, ‘Cheeking my fucking…’

The giggler was suddenly stern. ‘Is there someone else in the fucking house, Parry?’

‘… disrespectful and that, talking about smells and that, whit’s your fucking house like then?’

‘Come on, we’ll just go and see, Paul.’ It was the first polis again, the comedian.

Shugie spoke up. ‘My mate – he’s… sleeping it off.’

‘Right, answer us when we fucking speak tae ye, well.’

‘’S get the fuck out of here before we catch something.’

‘Too fucking right… disgusting.’

They were walking away, Shugie grumbling behind them. Finally the front door slammed shut.

Pat raised his head from his knees and whispered, ‘I can’t… my fucking nerves are shredded here,’ he reasoned. ‘Eddy, I know you’re the contact, but I’m facing the same time as you and I can’t fucking take it.’

Eddy raised a hand, Pat expected him to get angry but he looked frightened too. ‘Let’s go and phone and then we’ll come back and move him.’

‘Where to?’

‘Well, you fucking decide.’ Here was the spite. ‘You fucking come up with somewhere better if you’re so much fucking smarter than me.’

‘Breslin’s.’

Eddy blinked, his bottom lip flapped as he thought of things to say. He licked his lips, disappointed that Pat had come up with somewhere so much better. ‘Let’s phone.’

The roll shop was tiny, little more than a dirty-looking door with a chalkboard outside announcing the availability of tea and full breakfast butties. Pat made Eddy stop here because he knew it sold newspapers too.

He stepped across the pavement, alive with the urgent tenderness of a lover orchestrating a chance encounter. Workmen in dusty jeans stood by the counter. The heavy aroma of spitting fat filled the narrow room with sticky air. Trying to act calm Pat turned to the newspaper stand. She was looking out at him.

A bad photo, grainy head and shoulders, taken by a mobile phone, but it was clear enough for him to see what he wanted. Long black hair parted in the middle, a large nose, hooked like a finger curling come hither. White perfect smile and hooded eyes that spoke only to him. She was injured but not dead. The first paragraph said that they were a respectable family. Shows what they know, thought Pat.

She was making a face in the picture, puffing up her cheek-bones and pouting a little, not tarty, just sweet. Pat reached out to pick up a copy and felt the texture of the rough paper kiss his fingertips, smelled the hot fat as sweet, the daylight glinting on the greasy wall as a sparkle. That she existed made the tawdry present bearable. He folded the paper and tucked it under his arm, smiling, as happy as if it was her arm, and went over to the counter, ordered two egg and bacon rolls and two cans of ginger, handing over the money to the beautifully hungover fat man behind the counter.

He read on as the rolls were made. Her name was Aleesha, she was sixteen, a pupil at Shawlands Academy, loved by all her classmates. Pat knew she would be popular, he’d known it. She had lost several fingers and was in intensive care in the Victoria Infirmary. At that he slowly dropped the paper, his mouth hanging open in amazement. He knew she would be in the Vicky. He just knew that she would be there. It was as if they were connected somehow, as if he had picked the place they would meet again.