Brightly coloured lanterns are strung along the ancient West Port. They go down by antique bookshops. The fox gazes at one or two covetable titles. They pass the tattoo parlour. Dress shop. No police pass them.

The sky is a heavy, dense white and there is little light in the city.

Snow makes everything sparkle.

Along the West Bow and up onto the High Street. At the top of the Mound, they stop at a bicycle that has been left locked up by the fresh-bread delivery man, he smokes a cigarette and looks the other way as they pick up some weapons from his cart. He gets on his bike and cycles away, the cart disappears around the corner and the Original Founders look down toward the huge Christmas tree lit up on the Mound.

– What’s Santa gonnae bring ye this year, Bee?

– A man’s head in each hand.

– Nae body?

– None.

– How many do we kill?

– All of them, if we have to.

Bee wears the fox mask, her husband Rab is the ram. The zebra and the wolf are two broad-shouldered men: Davey and his younger brother Ali, respectively. They walk up the hill and down past the court. A street performer painted entirely silver and wearing a wizard’s hat appears to be levitating. He does not blink as the four animals, dressed so fine, walk by him. The Original Founders turn onto Luckenbooth Close. Rab raises his cane as if to knock on the scarred old door of No. 10. The street is hushed. All sounds are softened by snowfall. A light goes on in the second floor. Then it goes dark. The street has chip wrappers on it. Bicycles are tied to railings. Two have had wheels stolen so only the frames remain. Bin bags squat around the door. Rab pushes the door but it has been fixed with a shiny intercom plate. He inspects it, his horns casting a shadow as he tries the service buzzer but it doesn’t work. Rab takes one step back and kicks the door in with a hard boot. Wood smashes on stone, the sound reverberates and he takes a bow, gesturing with an elaborate flourish that the entry is now clear.

– Don’t kill them all unless there’s no choice, Bee.

– Of course, Rab.

– Promise me?

– Cross my heart and swear to die.