‘Go on, will ya, give us some money, then, or I’ll slash your tyres,’ she said, eyeing up the car behind Molly, which wasn’t Molly’s car at all. Molly didn’t even look back; instead she focused on the wheelchair. ‘Not if I slash your tyres first,’ she said, and the auld one laughed. ‘Go on, give us some soup, then,’ she said.

The volunteer work kept her going for a time, but she needed something more; she needed something to fight for or rage against, and her best friend Pauline knew just the answer. They had been inseparable ever since Pauline knocked on Molly’s door one wild rainy night in the eighties with her face smashed in and two crying kids by her side. Molly was there for her when she threw her abusive husband out, and when the parish priest tried to talk her into taking him back it was Molly who sent him away with a flea in his ear. Molly gave her the strength to get rid of him and to stay rid of him. She had been there for Molly, too; throughout all of Rabbit’s treatments, setbacks and disappointments Pauline stood by with a hot cup of tea, a slice of her famous coffee cake and a listening ear. She was head of the residents’ committee and in charge of the local protest against the water charges, specifically the refusal to allow the installers to dig up their properties to install water meters. She was out of her depth and needed her pal. She invited Molly over on a Monday afternoon and offered to prepare lunch. She made a coffee cake specially. They sat together over a home-made tomato soup and smoked salmon on home-made brown bread.

‘What have I done to deserve this?’ Molly asked, knowing well the crème fraiche in the soup meant Pauline was looking to do a bit of business.

‘I need help.’

‘With wha’?’

‘This protest, Molly. I’ve promised everyone we won’t let those blackguards dig up our gardens and streets to put in those poxy meters, but sure what can I do?’ she said, raising her arms. ‘I’m four foot four and weigh less than a packet of crisps.’

‘Well, no one is expecting you to fight the fuckers, Pauline,’ Molly said.

‘But what, then?’

‘You organise a group, just like a strike, a few banners, an auld slogan, like loads of the other areas are doing.’

‘Ah yeah, but people work, Molly, and there’s a lot around here too old for that kind of thing.’

‘Bollocks, too lazy more like. Get on the Facebook, tell them all what time these men are coming and get the names of those willing to stand up against them.’

‘Will you, Molly?’

‘Well, we’ll see, I’ve a lot to do.’

‘You see,’ Pauline said, ‘people are busy.’

‘Yeah, but the difference is they care about this.’

‘And you don’t.’