Late December, two days before Christmas. Alex had colonised the living room, dragged the sofa into a front-and-centre location, reconnected the Xbox to the television and was doggedly taking Sheffield Wednesday through a sensational season in the Championship, towards the play-offs and promotion. FIFA, Career Mode: a taste of power and glory for the bruised and bloodied fans of a team under siege in the real world. This was Alex’s antidote to the rigours of Plato, Kant and Nietzsche at Trinity College, Cambridge, and the Owls had never had a manager as wise, steadfast and inspiring as Alexander Lawrence. There was a well-known game hack, available via a two-second Google search, to secure an unlimited budget for the transfer windows, but Alex refused to cheat. Instead, he slogged away with the funds he was allocated, growing his squad and bringing talented youth players up through the ranks. His dad was proud of him. A steady hand on the tiller, some home-grown talent, a few canny purchases from unlikely sources, and result after result that proved you couldn’t just buy success in football, you had to nurture it. This is what Dan had just said to Katelin, after she’d complained that the boy had sat on his arse and wasted two days in the front room with the curtains closed.

‘That’s just pathetic,’ she said, now, to Dan. They were out with McCulloch, hunched against the cold, walking alongside the Water of Leith.

‘Oh, give over,’ he said. ‘Give the lad a break. It’s harmless.’

‘I didn’t mean Alex is pathetic, I meant you – the way you talk about a stupid Xbox game, like it’s actually happening. Home-grown talent, canny purchases, all that bollocks.’

Dan said, ‘It’s not stupid, have you seen those graphics? Bloody remarkable. That Wednesday squad – identifiable, to a man.’

Katelin tutted. ‘Yeah, but it’s not Match of the Day, is it? There’s no real justification for you sitting in there and actually watching, is there?’

Dan laughed, refusing to be rattled. ‘Guilty as charged,’ he said. ‘But look, it was the derby.’

The aim was to go a couple of miles or so, towards Roseburn and Murrayfield, but it was hard to see the point, now they were out, and even the little dog trotted glumly at Dan’s heels, with no indication of enjoyment. Dan had intended to run with him, as he did sometimes, to get the lazy little sod moving at something other than walking pace, and he’d been all ready to go, trainers on, earphones in, iPod in the pocket of his shorts, when Katelin said she was feeling stir-crazy, needed some air, and could she come too? But Katelin didn’t run, hated running, wouldn’t even run for a bus, and so here they were, trudging. Terrible weather for it, a dreich winter’s day, damp but not raining, bone cold but not clear.