McAvoy is sitting on the leather-effect sofa in the sitting room of the terraced property. It was already furnished when he moved in, though ‘furnished’ may be pushing the definition of the term. The sitting room contains a two-seater sofa, a matching armchair, a three-bar electric fire and round metal table and chairs intended for outdoor use. The only ‘art’ on the wall is an ugly reproduction of something blobby by Matisse, hanging awkwardly against the bright-white chimney breast in a cracked clip-frame. McAvoy’s meagre possessions are in his room. Books, photographs, sporting trophies and medals: a leather-bound folder containing his certificates of achievement: a few drawings of animals, of birds, of wildflowers; the landscapes of his childhood in the Western Highlands. He didn’t even bring more than a rucksack of clothes when he left Carlisle. He’s either in uniform, or makes do with his three or four rugby shirts, and faded, Britpop-era jeans. He’s wearing an Arran sweater and some denim shorts this evening. His short red hair sticks up at the back and despite his best efforts, his broad, handsome face looks as though it is covered in four days’ growth of stubble. In truth, he shaved this morning. He fancies he could probably grow a biblical beard in about a week. At school, they blamed an excess of testosterone: an accusation that made him blush. He presumes he still suffers from the same problem, though there is no shortage of people who have offered to help him siphon off the excess. Nobody was more surprised than he was when it emerged, during freshers week, that he was considered devilishly handsome by the opposite sex. He’s never really made his peace with it. In the company of women he has a tendency to trip over his own feet, or say the wrong thing, or say nothing at all. He can’t get the hang of double-entendres and his cheeks burn crimson if anybody is direct with him.

‘… I mean, it doesn’t bother me, but people will, y’know …’

McAvoy looks up. Detective Constable Dachman Buller is still talking to him. McAvoy wonders if he’s missed anything important. Certainly the presence of his housemate has ruined his enjoyment of the book that he holds in his lap. He’s read the same sentence nine times. He’s midway through a Ken Bruen novel, quietly delighting in the exploits of crumpled private investigator Jack Taylor. Taylor’s his guilty pleasure. He adores his one-liners, his capacity for the drink; the way he takes the pain of others inside him, powerless to stop it metastasizing into violence, into the deaths of those closest to him. There is something of the avenging angel about Taylor, and McAvoy almost envies the poor broken bastard for at least having the freedom to be himself. McAvoy wishes life were that simple. Wishes he had the first clue whether he believes himself to be the last of the good men, or a coward too afraid to do anything other than follow orders.