He watched up at the house. The car had been gone when Tony arrived and he’d assumed that the cop had gone to do a grocery shop in Paisley, just as Duggan had said was his habit on a Friday evening. Tony glanced at his watch, noted the time. He’d said he would stay until eight and it was already getting dark. He was bored, being here without Karen to talk to. He put on the radio, flicked through channels, trying to find something he could listen to, his attention focused on the dial.

As a result, the tap at his car window shocked him. He jumped, his stomach twisting. Turning in panic, he saw two teenaged boys standing outside the car, one with an unlit cigarette in his hand.

Tony wound down the window.

‘A’right, mister. Have ye a light?’ The youth held a cigarette aloft.

‘I don’t smoke.’

‘Yer car has a ciggie lighter, don’t it?’ the other one asked.

Tony nodded, his thoughts tumbling. ‘Of course. I forgot. I don’t smoke,’ he repeated. He pressed in the lighter, willing it to heat up quickly.

‘You said already,’ the first one commented. ‘Are you from Belfast?’

‘No.’

‘Where then?’

‘Derry,’ Tony said, then cursed himself for having done so.

‘Never heard of it. You’d know your accent a mile off. My da’s from Belfast.’

Tony nodded.

‘He plays the fife in the bands. Do you play?’

Tony shook his head. The lighter popped out and he drew it out, his face briefly illuminated by the orange glow from the element.

‘I don’t.’

The young fell lit his cigarette. By the flaring of his smoke, Tony could see pockmarks from acne scarring his cheeks and a line shaved through one eyebrow. He glanced up quickly, to recover the lighter, then looked away again, trying to remain in profile so the youth wouldn’t have clear sight of his face.

‘Are you Rangers or Celtic?’ the second youth asked, taking the lighter and trying to light his smoke from it, but the lighter had already cooled too much to be of use.

‘Gone do that again,’ he said, handing it back to Tony who pressed it into its slot a second time, his heart thudding so strongly now, he could feel the seat vibrating beneath him with each pulse.

‘Blues or Hoops?’ he asked again.

Tony cared nothing for football, but knew the significance of the question. He took a guess, based on the comment about the father of one of the boys playing the fife.

‘Rangers.’

‘Billy Boys all the way!’ the second lad laughed.

‘What are ye doing sitting here?’ the first one asked now, puffing at his smoke, the cigarette held between thumb and first two fingers so that his hand cupped it as he took a drag.

‘I’m waiting for someone.’

‘Yer girl?’

‘Aye.’

‘Is she the one normally sits wi’ ye?’