The Kellys were a bad lot. There were four boys. One much younger, who wasn’t at our school yet. The two middle boys, Daniel and Thomas, were about my age, with a year between them. And Patrick was a year older. People said their father was involved with some notorious Edinburgh gang, and that he’d spent time in prison. He was rumoured to have a scar that ran in an arc from the left-hand corner of his mouth to the lobe of his left ear, like an extension of his lower lip. I never saw him, but the image conjured by that description always stayed with me.

Catherine got there before I did, because even then she’d become protective towards Peter. Although she was younger than me, and just about the same age as Peter, she fussed and mothered us both. Not in any sentimental kind of way. Hers was a bossy, almost brutal kind of mothering, perhaps born of experience. No gentle warnings, or loving pats on the head. A kick in the arse and a mouthful of abuse was much more Catherine’s style.

I arrived among the group just in time to see her shock at the tattoo on Peter’s arm. We had never told her about it, and the look she flashed me conveyed all the hurt she felt at not having been included.

Peter had his jacket off and his sleeve rolled up. Even the Kelly boys, who were not impressed by much, were wide-mouthed in admiration. But Patrick was the one to see mileage in the situation.

“You’re going to be in trouble when they find out about that, Daftie,” he said. “Who did it?”

“It’s a secret,” Peter said defensively. He started rolling down his sleeve. But Patrick grabbed his arm.

“That’s a pro job, init? Bet that guy could be in big trouble for scarring a boy your age. What are you, fifteen? I’d say you’d need parents’ permission for something like that.” He laughed then, and there was a cruelty in his voice. “Course, since you don’t have any, that would make it a wee bit difficult.”

“Better to have no parents than a father who’s been in the fucking jail.” Catherine’s voice cut through the laughter of the boys, and Patrick turned a dangerous look in her direction.

“You shut your mouth ya wee shite.” He took a step towards her and I moved smartly between them.

“And you watch yours, Kelly.”

Patrick Kelly’s pale green eyes met mine. He had ginger hair and a face the colour of porridge. It was spattered with freckles. He was an ugly boy. I could see the calculation in his gaze. He was a big lad, but so was I. “What’s it to you?”

“I’m a bit sensitive to bad language.”