I wasn’t worried that anyone in charge would actually think it was me. From what the news reports said, his death had Loyalist feud written all over it in indelible ink. Their interminable power struggle was still grinding on. Only the week before, wee Tommy’s dad had been gunned down outside a pub.

But I stared calmly back at him until he got uncomfortable and shifted his gaze. You’ll notice I didn’t deny his suggestion flat out. I told him the truth, but with enough space there for him to imagine that I really might have had something to do with McGee’s death.

I didn’t do that for me, but for him. It’s what he needed. It was a feature of his personality that he could only respect someone older if he was a tiny bit frightened of them.

‘Phyllis told me you wanted to help out in the shop,’ I said.

‘Aye,’ he said.

He kept his eyes lowered, but his body was tensed and alert, his head cocked to one side like a listening bird. He had only just turned twelve: he said his birthday had happened while I’d been away, and his ma had given him money to take a couple of friends to see a horror film with a 15 certificate.

I didn’t understand how the ushers could have let him in, with him looking so small, but he wore a cynically streetwise air around town. Strangers give up early on shielding kids like Marty. They figure the likes of him have seen it all already.

‘I need to make one thing very clear,’ I said. ‘Everything that happens in that shop has to be above board. No nicking stuff, no so-called “donations” to anyone who might be collecting, no tip-offs about when the cash register is left unlocked to any special friends.’

His eyes widened in indignation: ‘D’you think I would do that?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘You might. But if you ever do, I will find out. And if anyone approaches you, tell me. As it is, the shop makes one big donation from Phyllis every year, and in public too. To yon wee disabled club.’

He nodded. I snaffled one of his chips. It was best to be honest.

‘One more thing,’ I said. ‘Your first Saturday’s money, take it down to Mrs Hackett and give it to her in exchange for all the Walnut Whips you nicked. After that it’s all yours.’

‘I’m not going to do that,’ he said, insulted.

‘Fine. I was going to give you a chance. But go back to sitting on your wall. Go back to being a top lad. Maybe one of the hoods will bring you into one of their wee schemes so you can scrape together just enough for a fancy skateboard. Then one day when you stop being useful to them you’ll see what happens.’