Having taken the armchair opposite Mr. Curran, Danny had wasted no time with his revelation, maniacally spewing it up without commas or full stops. He’d been prepared for hysterics from Carina and even physical violence from her dad, but instead they’d just sat in silence, depriving him of any distraction from his shame. Confession over, the eight foot walk to the front door had seemed like a mile.

 Three days later, the Currans had turned up at the Great Eastern Hotel, returning Danny’s money. He’d tried to convince Carina that, as a victim of both Bob Fitzgerald’s violence and Rex McLeod’s drug dealing, she was entitled to some compensation. But she’d said she abhorred the compensation culture and believed all money should be in the hands of communities, not individuals.

 “Individuals waste money on phone ringtones, cocaine and furry dice to hang from their rear view mirrors,” she’d said. “Whereas communities, at their best, spend it on brain surgeons and special needs education. As a beneficiary of both, how can I legitimise taking any more money out of the pot? Without a Health Service, fifty thousand pounds wouldn’t even have paid for my bed and breakfast in a private hospital.”

 When Carina spoke, her brain damage had made itself apparent. She’d had to pause every so often to remember a simple word or regain a train of thought and occasionally she’d slurred her words. Apart from this handicap she’d been remarkably eloquent — especially for someone having to relearn how to read and write.

 Carina said that closing a college for twenty kids in order to make one individual wealthy was absurd. If he really wanted to make amends for what he’d done, she’d told Danny, he could teach her how to paint.

 After the first drawing lesson round at the house, Carina had taken a nap, leaving Danny and Mr. Curran alone together. Mr. Curran had explained how the be all and end all of his daughter’s life had been playing the cello, until Mrs. Curran died, following a protracted illness. It was at this time that she’d become close friends with a wealthy violin player from her orchestra, called Cordellia Henderson. This elegant lady — the wife of a merchant banker — had been smoking heroin in Carina’s company after shows for years without any apparent adverse effects. As a consequence, the young girl had seen no harm accepting an invitation to a toot one evening, as a distraction from her grief. The banker’s wife had enjoyed having a partner in crime and Carina smoked heroin gratis on fourteen consecutive nights before that particular run of shows ended. The following week, she’d been ringing on the Henderson’s doorbell at their West End townhouse, lusting after another toot. But the visit had been ill received, with Carina being scolded for her indiscretion and warned never to visit the house again, under any circumstances. If she hadn’t just inherited three thousand pounds the teenager would have been blissfully broke, as always, and gone straight home, perhaps never touching heroin again. Instead, she’d hit the East End, enquiring for dealers among the street corner gangs, until someone directed her to a Gallowgate apartment. Within a month all her money had been smoked away and her life was spiralling out of control. Having been sacked from the orchestra for falling asleep during a performance, she’d sold the cello her father had worked double shifts for at the Tennents Brewery, before taking up prostitution and the hypodermic needle. The rest, as they say, is history. Fortunately, Carina’s injuries had erased all memory of heroin. Unfortunately, though, they’d also stolen her musical talent.

 “So how are the lessons going then?” Judith asked.

 “I’ve been round at the Currans house every other day for the past month. Like a fool, I actually forgot that I was round there to be punished, until last week.”

 “Why, what happened last week?”

 “Carina was struggling to get a grasp of a sketching technique I was showing her and then she erupted. She said she had more contempt for me than for Bob Fitzgerald, and that she’d only asked me to teach her how to paint so that she could see just how far I’d crawl for absolution. She reckons that the fact I even want forgiveness indicates that I’m not really contrite at all. In her opinion, a truly contrite man would accept his guilt as just rewards and suffer in silence, not go trying to buy peace of mind by dropping money through people’s letterboxes. She said that the only person I was really concerned about was myself, and even though she’s since apologised, she’s right. I used her tragic situation to get cash and never gave her another thought. Then, when I learnt where it came from I tried to use her to get rid of it. Just as Bob and other men exploited Carina for sex, I’ve been exploiting the poor girl for my own salvation.”

 “So what happens now?”

 “Well, I either suffer in silence like Carina says, or I put myself in the same misery as those I’ve profited from. I think the latter is probably the only way my remorse can ever be seen as sincere.”

 “Or, you could just forget all this nonsense and start living like a normal human being.” Judith jumped up from the bed, turning to face Danny. “Bob Fitzgerald’s right. What makes you think you’re so bloody special? That you’re entitled to a life of virtue? You’re fast enough to forgive everyone else’s sins, why not your own? Can’t you see how arrogant that is? I mean, why’s it wrong for you to spend McLeod’s money, but ok for Katy and the Cruickshanks to have it? I’ve as much to feel guilty about as you. I was complicit in the blackmail and I enjoyed the proceeds of drugs money.”

 “No, no…it’s not the same.”

 Judith laughed, flabbergasted. “You think you’re better than me don’t you.”

 “Eh?”

 “It’s ok for me and everyone else to sin because, we know not what we do. But you, you’re a superior being. There’s no excuse for you.”

 “That’s because of my Christian, socialist upbringing! Have you still not got that? It’s all about caring for others while flagellating yourself. Remember what I told you about Crazy Ferguson hitting me with a bottle? How my mother said it had served me right for defending the enemy against my own? Well, it would have been the same had I just stood back and allowed him to slash Bob. Then she’d he have recited the story of the Good Samaritan and condemned me for being a poor Christian. And that’s how my life’s been for the past forty three years Judith, looking for the best in everyone else and the worst in myself… stopping during every experience and wondering: what would mum think of this? Am I a true socialist? Am I good Christian?”

 “You can shake it off! I saw the change in you at Gairloch…it was amazing!”

 “I must admit, I had started enjoying things without constantly consulting her in my head. I could still hear her talking, but she had to compete with the kids’ voices. In the end they were having far more of an influence over me than I ever could have had over them. Thanks to Hamish, Ryan, Angie and yourself, their intellects were expanding, exposing my own mind as stagnant by contrast. They had myriad points of view to offer at the dinner table debates, where as I was trotting out the same tired old Marxist mantras, like a priest performing his thousandth communion. To keep up, I had to become more flexible in my thinking and consequently felt much lighter as a person. I thought that glass of Haut-Brion I drank was symbolic of the great change which had taken place within me. But then Bob turned up, almost as if my mother had sent him to remind me that in a capitalist world, one man’s pleasure is always at the expense of other men’s misery.” Danny poked a forefinger against his temple. “And now she’s the only voice in there again, shouting louder than ever, each second of the day.”

 “Well I think it’s time you heard some new voices then. I’m off to Iceland in the morning, and I know for a fact that there are still seats on my flight. Why don’t you come along?”