‘The ones I took when you were asleep, when you were wearing all the make-up and the bra like it’s your special thing. I gave the film to a friend who came to the door when you were knocked out. If anything happens to me or anyone I know, he’ll get them developed at Speedy Snaps, and send them to your da and all his mates. Then later I’ll come back and kill you anyway.’

‘You wouldn’t do that.’

‘I would. I understand they do posters too. Great big posters for the gable walls.’

‘I’ll burn Speedy Snaps to the fucking ground.’

‘Which branch?’

He glared at me with his red, blue-shadowed eyes.

‘Let me out.’

‘I don’t take orders. That’s the deal. Do you want it?’

A moment’s contemplation.

‘Aye.’

‘I’ll be leaving today. Remember what I said.’

‘Where’d you get the gun you had last night?’

I didn’t like that question. With his nose for violence and its hardware, he had started to scent something not quite right about the gun.

‘Never you worry,’ I said. ‘Rest assured it works.’

‘Okay. I agree. Just let me go.’

I looked at the clock. It was only just gone six in the morning. In an hour Phyllis would be arriving to unlock the shop. There was the whole day ahead.

There’s a point sometimes where you take a risk, not because you actually think it’s a good or clever idea, but just because you’re so very tired. I had exhausted the possibilities of the situation. I had realised now I wasn’t going to kill him, and I suppose he had too.

I went and got the Spud Gun and put it in my pocket, fumbling so he could see just enough of the movement but not the item itself. Then I ran a facecloth under the hot tap, wrung it out, and gently scrubbed Phyllis’s make-up off his face. He shut his eyes. I got most of it off, but his eyes still looked faintly exotic, as if stained by woad. A swollen, purpling bruise was spreading next to his nose.

The make-up stuff and the pretend camera hadn’t been very classy, I had to admit, but they plugged into his screwed-up values that stuck pride and shame in all the wrong places. Fellas like him fear mockery more than pain. I didn’t want a reconciliation with him. I just didn’t want him squatting in a corner of my conscience for the next fifty years.

I went behind him and unlocked his hands, and then started sawing through the masking tape on his legs. He opened his eyes, and for a second his gaze flicked across the scars on my arms as I hacked at the tape. When it finally came loose, he moved his arms and legs tentatively, wincing a bit as the feeling came back.