Every so often, exploding fireworks could be heard in the distance, on the outlying housing schemes, beyond the motorway.

 “So how have you reached a figure of seven hundred and sixty grand then?” Judith asked, intrigued.

 Danny’s eyes suddenly blazed with excitement; something she’d never expected to see in this dour man.

 “I can only speculate, but, according to one of Fin’s newspapers a couple of weeks back, sales of The Squeaky Kirk’s back catalogue have gone through the roof since Bob’s arrest.” He rummaged in his dressing gown pockets. “I’ve got some figures somewhere.” Producing a crumpled paper cutting, he came back inside and handed it to Judith. On it was a list of the band’s seven albums and the corresponding worldwide sales tallies from July to the beginning of October that year, totalling six hundred and thirty eight thousand copies. “If each CD sold for a tenner, there’s been a turnover exceeding six million quid, twelve and a half per-cent of which goes to Bob as the composer. That means roughly seven hundred and sixty grand for our charity.”

 “Oh! That’s not so bad then — have you decided which one?”

 “Too bloody right I have.”

 “Yea?” Judith was starting to warm to Danny again.

 “It’s a place up in the Highlands. Kids from underprivileged parts of Glasgow go there to learn about art and literature. Then they go on to complete their education at universities away from their hometown, so that they escape the hopeless environments that would otherwise stunt them. Hopefully, though, they’ll return some day to pass their learning on. It’s a beautiful wild place where they can fish, hike and sort their heads out in peace.”

 “Arr, that sounds really nice Danny. Where is it exactly?”

 “I’ll tell you when I’ve found a suitable location. We should be able to get somewhere big enough with more than seven hundred grand, shouldn’t we?”

 “What? You’re going to run your own private school?” Judith exclaimed. “You’re going to select who can and can’t attend?”

 “Like I say, I’ve learnt to execute my principles within the context of the world in which I actually live. Rather than just moan about the poor provision of services, I’m actually going to provide alternative one’s and hopefully, become a model — a beacon for others. It’s not the way I want it, but the fact is, the poor are going to have to learn to educate themselves, because it’s more than apparent that the middle classes aren’t going to do it for them. Just as the Rochdale Pioneers had to open their own schools in the Nineteenth Century, we, the ‘underclass’, are going to have to do the same now. After all, if you’re not prepared to look after your own, you can hardly expect strangers to.” Just then, Fin walked tentatively into the lounge. “Fin, nip out and get a meal for five from the Chinese,” Danny shouted. “You can take it out of my disability money!” Fin looked delighted. Not only was his brother talking to him, but it seemed he might actually be about to eat something too. “And get yourself some beers and a bottle of wine for Judith — we’re celebrating.”

CHAPTER: 9

After a jovial meal around the coffee table, Judith nodded off on the White’s couch. Next morning, she was woken at around eight by a whistling, clean shaven Danny, whose baggy black suit looked ridiculous on his thin body. Taking pity, she frogmarched him into the kitchen, sat him on a stool and set about his curly mane with a pair of scissors. She was just brushing his brown locks from the linoleum when the buzzer went on the intercom. Danny told his visitors to come up then inspected his haircut in the hall mirror before opening the door. Bob, still in white, marched straight past him to the lounge, shadowed by a dumpy, gnome-like lawyer with a pointed ginger goatee beard, wearing a green and brown tartan suit. Danny and Judith tagged along.

 Fergus Baxter slammed a briefcase on the glass coffee table moodily, sitting at the very edge of the couch to open it. The others, all nervous, remained on their feet. He produced a cheque and held it up in the air for Danny to take.

 “A hundred and fifty thousand pounds?” Danny turned imploringly to Bob. “We agreed on all your royalties since July. What’s going on?”

 “You’re much better off this way — believe me,” Baxter interrupted.

 Danny rustled in his suit pocket then handed the paper cutting to the lawyer, who read the text and sniggered.

 “I was under the impression you were more intelligent than to believe the newspapers.” Noting the anger in Danny’s eyes, though, he held a pacifying, vertical palm out. “Royalties come in dribs and drabs Mr. White, whereas with a lump sum — invested properly — the interest alone will be more than a match.” Baxter pinched his ginger goatee between two fingers several times. “It’s also less suspicious.”

 “I don’t see how me receiving his royalties is any more conspicuous than the transfer of a hundred and fifty grand from his account to mine.”

 Baxter smiled, cynically. “My client tells me you’re a painter, Mr. White — and a very good one too. So good in fact, that nobody would be shocked to discover somebody paying a hundred and fifty grand for some of your collection.”

 “No!” Danny turned to Bob again. “Don’t you dare use him to flatter and bamboozle me. You instruct him to do as we agreed!”

 “If we could all just calm down a second,” Baxter appealed, so reasonably it was eerie. “Once news gets around that your paintings are valued in six figure sums you’ll literally be printing your own cash, for a year at the least.”

 “And I suppose it’ll be tax deductible for you, won’t it?”

 Baxter shrugged his shoulders.

 Danny looked down at the holes in the threadbare carpet, slowly shaking his head in anger before looking up again. “I’ll have to confer with my friend.” He flicked his head for Judith to join him back in the kitchen. “So what do you think?” he whispered to her.

 “I thought we were supposed to be punishing him for what he’s done to that poor girl?” she exclaimed indignantly, while straining to keep her voice down. “To me it seems he can’t lose. He’ll be able to claim tax back if he’s bought your paintings, and by artificially creating such a lucrative art market, he may even go on to sell them at a profit. Which means you get less than you originally asked and he ends up even richer. How’s that making amends? I mean, who’s blackmailing who here? On top of that, he’s dragging you into the mire with him. Your name will be synonymous with his forever.”

 Danny put his hands to his head, before dragging them down his face, stretching his eyes and alabaster skin with his fingers. He sighed.

 “You’re right, he mustn’t get everything his own way. But me and Fin need that cash or we’re screwed. I’ll compromise and meet them half way: three hundred and sixty grand.”

 “It’s seven hundred and sixty grand or nothing Danny. You’re the blackmailer for God’s sake, not the other way round.”

 They marched purposefully back into the lounge, interrupting Bob and Baxter’s whispering huddle on the couch.

 “Err,” Danny went to speak but Judith raised her voice over his.

 “It’s like this, fellas: Danny’s been more than reasonable already. Anyone else would have bled you dry. So it’s seven hundred and sixty grand or he’s going straight to the police.”

 Baxter looked to Bob, before plucking another already written cheque from his case. Along with this he arranged some paperwork out on the coffee table to be signed: receipts for the purchase of paintings at seven-hundred and sixty thousand pounds — a figure which, it was now obvious, they’d been willing to pay all along. Once Danny had signed everything, Bob clapped his hands together.