away, lowering her voice, so as not to be heard.
South closed his eyes and tried to remember the last time he had seen his friend. He had been running after a shift; he liked to do at least a couple of miles most evenings. The light had already been going. He tried to picture Bob waving at him, to remember exactly what he had looked like that last time.
‘What on earth are you doing, Billy?’
When he opened his eyes, Sergeant Ferguson was standing there by the chip van, in his big peaky hat and uniform.
‘I was just on my way home.’
‘Were y’now?’ Ferguson smiled. ‘Come on then, lad. I been out all over looking for you.’
Ferguson laid his hand on Billy’s shoulder to steer him towards their house up at the top of the cul-de-sac. The sergeant was a thin man whose uniform always looked too big, but he wasn’t the worst of them.
Why did his mum always dress like a teenager? It was embarrassing. She was in the hallway on the phone. ‘Thank God. He’s here now.’ She put down the handset. ‘Billy, where the hell you been? I was sick with worry. Tea was ages ago.’
‘Miss McCorquadale wanted to talk to me,’ he said.
His mother scowled. ‘Oh yes. And what did she want?’
‘She said she was praying for me. She told me I could talk to her any time.’
‘Sanctimonious busybody’ said Billy’s mother. ‘Tell her to mind her own beeswax.’ Behind her, peering from the living-room door, stood the RUC inspector who had called on them twice before: a big, veiny-faced man who smelt of beer.
Billy’s mum enfolded her son in a hug, even though the coppers were there to see it. He felt the push of her breasts against his face. ‘Get off,’ said Billy, wriggling.
‘Hello, Billy,’ said the Inspector, attempting a crook-tooth smile as Billy struggled free, pushing past him into the living room. His mother followed them. The small room looked especially bare since they had taken up the carpet.
They had had to, on account of the blood. Dad’s favourite chair was gone too.
The Inspector was holding a pencil in one hand and a blue notebook in the other. ‘As you were saying, Mrs Mac,’ he said, all familiar and friendly.
‘I wasn’t aware I was saying anything at all,’ she said.
‘I was asking for a list of your husband’s associates.’
‘Write down what you like,’ Billy’s mother said. ‘But you know I am not saying anything.’
‘No,’ he said sadly. ‘You’re not. But you have to understand, after an incident, all sorts of rumours go flying around. And at times like these, rumours have deadly consequences. The sooner we find out who did this . . .’
‘I have a child,’ she said. ‘It’s just me and him now. You know I can’t say a single word.’
‘No,’ said the Inspector mournfully.
‘My husband was always a stupid idiot,’ said Billy’s mother. ‘Getting involved in all that. And now look what’s happened.’
The Inspector looked shocked. Sergeant Ferguson was more used to it.
She was not even dressed in black, like you’re supposed to. They had some of the other mums round here the other day, whispering and tutting, though they do that anyway. She still dressed in skirts and platform boots, which Billy thought was embarrassing enough at the best of times. Today she was wearing that yellow sweater that showed her bra straps, God’s sake.
Ferguson put his hat down on a chair and said, ‘While you’re talking to the Inspector, why don’t I have a wee chat with Billy upstairs?’
‘I don’t know about that,’ said his mother.
‘You know me, Mary. We’re good pals. Trust me,’ said Ferguson.
‘I don’t mind,’ said Billy, glad to be away from his mother and the Inspector. Fergie was OK.
‘Lead the way, Billy,’ said Ferguson.
‘Don’t say nothing, you hear? Nothing.’
‘Do you have any more tea?’ said the Inspector hurriedly. ‘It’s a great cup you make.’
THREE
‘What’s wrong?’ said Cupidi, marching