Oh Jesus no, more than one of them, I thought. Please don’t come out into the yard. I raised my head a bit, looked in, and saw McGee. Next to him was Marty, in a wee black bomber jacket. He looked suddenly older. I ducked again and pulled on my Bill Clinton mask under my baseball cap, inhaling the smell of rubber and my own souring breath. From above my head, I could hear far too clearly what they were saying.

‘Sure you won’t actually be doing anything,’ McGee said. ‘You’re just the lookout. You’re lucky enough to be let into an operation at all at your age. Beer?’

There was the crack and hiss of a can being opened. First one, then another.

‘Anyway, you’re too wee to go to jail. You’re underage,’ McGee said. I got the feeling that he thought this passed for reassurance.

‘But who is it you’re doing?’ Marty said. His voice sounded high and shaky, a little breathless, as though he had accidentally slipped into waters too deep for him to swim in confidently.

‘Who said we were doing anyone? Anyway you don’t need to know. Better if you don’t.’

‘Are they in the Provies?’

‘Does it fucking matter? You don’t need to know. They’re trouble, just like the Provies. But just remember, if you squeal about this to anyone, ever, I’ll have to come after you.’

A silence.

‘Don’t worry, son,’ McGee carried on in a more avuncular tone, as if he had been kidding: ‘I know you’re going to be okay, and you’ll get a few quid towards that skateboard you keep going on about. Top lad. Okay?’

‘Aye.’

‘Aye well, come back here tomorrow after school and I’ll give you the plan of where you’ve to be at what time.’

‘All right. See you tomorrow.’

‘Are you not going to finish your beer?’ McGee called after him. But the front door closed as he was still speaking. He was slurring a little. With some relief, I realised that he was properly legless.

I could hear the sound of humming, breaking into words. McGee was singing a country and western song to himself – ‘I go out walkin’ after midnight, out in the moonlight, ju-st like we used to do’ – and rooting about in his fridge for the makings of a snack – ‘I’m always walkin’ after midnight, searchin’ for yo-u’. Then he remembered the dog. ‘Major!’ he shouted. I tensed myself. The dog made no sound, no ragged, gratifying, anticipatory panting and scrabbling. ‘Major!’ he yelled again, stung, and opened the back door. The dog was lying there, a long slab of fur spread flat out in a haze of soft rain. McGee started walking towards it: ‘What the fu—’