The only time I ever had any physical courage at all was when I was in a blind rage, and then I temporarily forgot about being afraid. More fool me. Big Jacky had always warned me: ‘That temper of yours will get you into trouble one day, son.’ Well, he had been right. But I wasn’t in a rage now, far from it. I was miserable and worried. Why hadn’t I left McGee alone last night, banked the information, and worked out some clever, subterranean way to punish him properly? As it was, I probably hadn’t even hurt him. He had fallen to the floor, unhorsed by pure surprise, but I hadn’t seen any blood on him when they were hustling him away. There would be a few bruises, maybe, but it was a poor revenge for what had happened to Titch.

I went outside to a phone box – I didn’t want to call from Murdie’s home phone – and rang Phyllis at the newsagent’s shop. She sounded distant and reedy, as if testing out this newfangled speaking device for the first time from somewhere in the nineteenth century: ‘Hel-lo?’

‘Hello Phyllis, it’s Jacky.’

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m staying at a friend’s house. I’ll be here for a while, Phyllis. I’ve had a row with a Loyalist guy, a nasty piece of work, and I’m staying away from home for a bit. I’ll not be at the bar either.’

‘Oh my goodness.’ Phyllis’s voice had gone all quavery.

‘If anyone comes round looking for me, no matter who, you tell them that I haven’t been home since Wednesday morning. Pack up some of my clothes and stuff and put it in the attic. If they start asking you questions, tell them that I phoned you late on Wednesday night and said I wasn’t coming home, and that I was going to Scotland on money I borrowed from a friend, and not to worry about me. Tell them I wouldn’t tell you where I was but that I’ve promised to write.’ That sounded convincing.

The deluge of instruction was too much for Phyllis. I could hear her struggling to breathe.

‘Listen, Phyllis. Calm down. Don’t worry, seriously. You don’t need to tell the Iron Lung about this yet. She’ll only go berserk. I’ll ring her myself in a week or two.’

A bemused silence. I had been trying to make her laugh, but she had probably forgotten about telling me that her boyfriend used to call Aunt Mary the Iron Lung.

‘But what if they come round here?’ she said, uncomprehending. She hadn’t even worked out who ‘they’ were yet. That would all happen later, in some messy tangle of reflection.