(And later, of course, those words would return to him: You can all just fucking forget about the cinema next week. Was his father already planning what he would do? No way of knowing.)

Going to the sink, Tommy thought of how upset Nicky would be about the cinema trip. He knew he had caused this disaster. But it was also true that his mother had caused it, because she didn’t give in to his father, even though it was obvious she should, but instead made him angry by arguing with him. Scrubbing at his hands furiously, Tommy thought that anyone could see how stupid she was about it sometimes. So Tommy’s rage became spread between himself and his mother, and it was this afterwards he remembered above everything else, that although he had blamed himself, most of all he had blamed her.

7

Davey McPhee rang Malcolm the next morning. Malcolm was in the kitchen, washing up the plates and pan from last night’s tea while Tommy ate cereal at the table.

Malcolm went into the hall to pick up the phone.

“Coming for a drink tonight, Malcolm?” Davey said without preamble.

The bar was attached to the tiny Litta Hotel, which closed during the winter months. The bar, however, was kept open for the locals, at least if you rang up Ross Johnston, who worked behind it, and told him you’d be coming (the disadvantage was you then had to drink with him). The others had long given up making fun of Malcolm for drinking his ale by the half not the pint. “Malcolm’s not a big drinker,” they’d acknowledge to one another, until it became a statement of fact rather than a criticism.

“I’m staying in tonight,” Malcolm told Davey.

“Been a while since we’ve seen you.”

“I . . .” He wasn’t sure why he was being hesitant; Davey would know already. “I’ve got Tommy here staying.”

“Bring him along,” Davey said. “You know he’s welcome.” After a pause, he added, “There are people here who’d be pleased to see him. See him grown.”

Malcolm took this in silence. He thought it was true that most of the others felt warmly towards Tommy, even felt a protective interest in his well-being. This unease, then, came from Malcolm himself. He said, “I’m a bit worn out, Davey. I’ll come along another night.”

“You sound like you’re in your eighties, not your sixties,” Davey said. “But fine, come along another night. With Tommy, O.K.?”

“O.K.,” Malcolm said.

“How is he, anyway?”

“He’s fine.”

“Married?”

“No.”

“I heard he lives in London now.”

“Aye,” Malcolm said.

“Travelled a long way, Tommy Baird.” There was a short, meditative silence, then Davey added, “He was a lovely boy.”

Malcolm wasn’t sure what to say to this. He presumed Davey meant before, given that most people would not have described Tommy as a lovely boy afterwards.