A lonely man is walking home from work, wondering what to have for dinner: bacon, he thinks, and then he thinks no, fish. At the fish counter he gets talking to the smiling woman beside him in the queue, they fall in love, and he stays with her for the rest of his life.

A woman is walking towards the bus after shopping in the city centre, when she suddenly remembers that her niece has just given birth to a baby boy. Should she get a present for the baby tomorrow? Och no, sure she might as well get it today. She nips into a department store, and in that very instant a bomb explodes just inside the shop door and the woman is lucky, they tell her later, because the people right beside her die but she only loses her legs.

People marvel at it, how the thin tug of an impulse can yank a whole life into a fixed shape. The man thinks: ‘What if I had gone to the meat counter instead?’ and the woman thinks: ‘What if I had just carried on walking to the bus stop?’

But sometimes we know, or think we know, what the terrible result of an action might be, and yet we go ahead and do it anyway. We trust to luck. We overtake on a blind bend and hope that there is nothing hurtling in the opposite direction. We realise, on the way to an appointment, that we have left the front door unlocked but we carry on, telling ourselves that today no one will test it. What makes us do it? The desire to escape from something, I suppose, and the desperate hurry to get to somewhere else. And the fact that ninety-nine times out of a hundred, we come out of it still laughing.

Murdie came back on Thursday night to tell me that someone had been in the bar looking for me – not McGee, but a hard-looking young fella with a thick neck and short fair hair.

‘He came in and said “is Jacky working tonight?” I told him that you had given in your notice. He said “Why was that?” I said “Haven’t a clue. Maybe he got sick of being stuck behind a bar.” He said “I heard he got into bother last night.” I said “Aye, there was a bit.” He said “If you see him, tell him Mr McGee would like a word with him.” I said “I doubt he’ll be back, but if I happen to bump into him, I’ll certainly pass on your message.” So I’m passing on Mr McGee’s message,’ said Murdie, falling into his armchair.

‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Murdie. Did Mr McGee’s friend mention what sort of a word Mr McGee wants with me? Perhaps he wants to invite me to a cocktail party, or some other variety of social event.’