He could smell them, their sweat and their curiosity. Blood lust, that’s what they had. They wanted to see the body, wouldn’t leave till they did. He’d seen it though and could tell them it wasn’t nice, not nice at all. What’s going on? someone near him shouted to the cops. His some’dy been shot? Huv they?

The tent that the forensics had put up was near the fence but not right at it. So when the first two heads appeared over the rise, the area lit up by temporary floodlights, the whole crowd saw them at once. Two cops at the head of a stretcher, others coming in to help to make sure it got over the fence safely, another two holding it at the back. The body was on its side; he could see that under the paper blanket that covered it. Probably with his DNA all over it.

There was a surge behind him as the crowd wanted closer and he let them slip past, a flood of the nosy bastards going by until he was at the back. All he could see above their heads was the gloved hands of the cops by the tape, telling them to stay where they were. Even if they hadn’t seen enough, he had.

He turned away, collar up, weaving his way through some new arrivals. Back to the car, opening the door and slipping inside. He sat in the dark for another five minutes, wondering how he was going to explain to his old man how he was this late in making his dinner for him.

His dad lived in a faded tenement in Adelaide Street, part of the East End’s changing landscape south of Duke Street and north of the Gallowgate. Like in many industrial cities, the East End of Glasgow was where the poor and the huddled masses traditionally lived, yearning to breathe free. Instead, they breathed in the pollution that blew in on the westerly wind from the factories and the yards in the city centre. It was their lot.

A whole slew of Adelaide Street had disappeared over the past few years and there was more still to go, maybe all of it. Its problem, apart from rising damp and a lack of decent heating, was that it was on the battleground where the money men were looking to expand their borders, creeping east when they thought no one was watching.

The East End was to become the new West End. That’s what they were trying to tell people. Remy took it to mean it was going to become too expensive to live in.

They hadn’t actually come out and said they wanted to demolish the whole area and build new houses that only those with good jobs could afford to buy but nobody doubted that was what they were up to. Remy’s dad wasn’t for moving though. As far as Archie Feeks was concerned, the only way they’d be getting him out of there was in a box.

There had been another letter from the company that owned the building, turning up the heat a few degrees as they pushed to get him out. Apparently, Mr Archibald Feeks was holding back the redevelopment of the entire East End and preventing his neighbours from enjoying the fruits of regeneration. Yeah, like his dad or his mates had any use for coffee shops or craft breweries or cafés that sold pulled pork served by bearded hipsters. Or rents that they couldn’t afford.

Not that Remy understood his dad’s attachment to the place. For a start, the stairs weren’t ideal for someone with a chronic lung disease but then again, neither was breathing. It was just something that had to be done.

He’d stopped at the Merchant Chippie on the High Street and picked up fish suppers for both of them. Cooking wasn’t an option now and this was the simplest thing. Anyway, some hot battered fish wrapped round Remy’s heart might just slow it down enough for him to talk.

He knocked on the front door then let himself in. He was greeted by the sound of the television coming from the front room and shouted out to his dad, ‘It’s me. Sorry I’m late.’

‘In here.’

His old man was sitting, as ever, in his favourite chair about five feet from the TV. He didn’t take his eyes off the screen as Remy came in the room but his nose twitched and his eyes slid over.

‘Here I was thinking that you’d fallen and broken your watch again. But you might be forgiven. That’s the smell offish and chips.’ He sniffed again. ‘Merchant Chippie, I’d say. And . . . wait a minute, there’s pickled eggs in there too.’

‘Brilliant, Dad. You should go on Britain’s Got Talent.’

‘Son, my lungs are worth tuppence ha’penny but there’s nothing wrong with my nose. Or my memory. It’s what you usually get. Come on, get them open. I’m so hungry I could eat a scabby-headed wean.’

Remy’s dad was a big little man, the kind that Glasgow specialized in. He carried himself like he was six foot two and no one had dared to tell him he was really only five foot five. It was all about the size of the fight in the dog. The toes of the slippers on his feet were pointed as ever at the television, like they were praying to his own Mecca.

Archie Feeks, former foreman and welder, built ships on the Clyde the same as his dad before him, but retired through ill health before he was sixty. The frustration of that was choking him but he wouldn’t let himself become a moaner. He knew the fault was his own. No one else had forced that cigarette smoke into his lungs.

Remy grabbed a couple of plates from the kitchen and set the fish suppers on them, handing one to his dad and sitting in a chair with the other. He was hoping the food would occupy his dad’s mouth enough that he wouldn’t have to answer any questions. He should have known better.

‘How come you’re so late? You been seeing that wee lassie of yours?’

‘She’s not my . . . No, I haven’t been seeing her. I was just in town with a couple of pals. Lost track of time.’

His dad’s head slowly turned, eyes narrowed. He’d always been able to tell when Remy was lying and he’d obviously not lost the knack. It was probably because Remy was so bad at it. He looked at him for a bit then glanced down, seeing that he hadn’t eaten any of the fish supper.

‘Not hungry, son?’

He was. He was starving but he just couldn’t touch it. He’d gone into the toilets in the Star & Garter and washed his hands before going for the chips but it still didn’t feel right. He wasn’t sure it would ever feel right again. He stood up.

‘Yes, they’re just a bit hot. I’ll give them a minute. Forgot to wash my hands.’

His old man looked doubtful. ‘Okay . . .’

Remy walked into the kitchen and turned on the hot tap, letting the water nearly scald him. He fired soap onto his hands, washing-up liquid too, and slathered them together. He stood in front of the sink with his eyes closed, screwed tight shut, and wished it all away. He dried his hands on a tea towel and took a fork out of the drawer.

Of course, his dad was all over the fork like an interrogation officer as soon as he saw it.

‘A fork. You become posh or something? Hands not good enough for you?’

‘I told you, they’re too hot.’

‘Too hot to touch but not too hot to eat?’

‘’Sake, Dad. Can I just eat it, please?’

They watched the news, Remy in silence barely noticing it, and his dad providing a running commentary.

‘What’s the world coming to, son? Killing kids with missiles? They should be ashamed of themselves and so should anyone that’s not stopping them. And how can kids still be dying in Africa just because of a drought? We should be sending our money over there, not arming people to bomb weans. Who said they could sell off the NHS? Tell me, who? Flogging it off to their mates so they can have even more money. It’s disgusting. Wouldn’t have happened if we’d voted Yes.’

He liked hearing his dad rant, showed there was still plenty of fight left in him, but the normality of it freaked him out. It was like nothing else had happened that night. How could the world just turn the same?

There was nothing on the news about Glasgow though, not that he expected there to be. Not quite yet and not on the national programme. Maybe on the regional news.