‘You’ll need to undo these,’ Pop said, indicating the handcuffs. ‘And go away and get some evidence, then come back.’

I noticed Curtis at the front window—stony-faced, refusing to acknowledge me, or anything going on.

Pop put himself between the policeman and the door. ‘We got a lawyer next door. You can just wait. I’ll go get him.’

The policeman tried to put John in, but Pop shouldered him, and the cop said, ‘You do that again, you’re in there too. Got it?’

‘He’s starting a new job,’ Pop said.

Didn’t he take your map? I wanted to ask. But he’d changed his mind. The stripes and uniforms and blue lights brought out the best in him.

‘What’d he say?’ Pop asked John as he was pushed in and the door closed and locked.

‘You can’t take him,’ Anne pleaded. ‘He’s told you what he’s done.’

‘I’s coming to tell you,’ Pop said to him. ‘Harry’s got a start date. August ten.’

The car grumbled, and filled the air with lead.

‘John?’

Anne grasped the back door, and tried to open it. ‘We’ll have you out in a jiff.’

‘August ten,’ Pop said. ‘I’ll tell him. Don’t worry about this little prick. We’ll sort him out.’

Curtis had gone, but the curtain was still moving. The car drove off, hmphed onto the road and cruised the length of Lanark II. Anne turned to Pop and said, ‘When it was done, he was at home. They said the third, but he was with us, Doug.’

We went home and Pop returned to the shed to search for the map. I sat in his chair, put on the telly and watched football. It made as much sense as anything. I picked up the TV Times, opened it to Sunday and saw the map, flattened between the pages. The highway, the side roads, the cross. ‘Pop, I got it!’ I called.

Val stood on a stool and attempted to pick small, shrivelled mandarins. She was sure Mum would want them. I held a plastic bag, and she dropped them in. ‘Tell her there’s plenty where these come from.’

She was still in her nightie, but often was until lunch, or early afternoon. Dressing-gown open, revealing an old age of broken capillaries. Slippers, too, with flapping soles.

‘Keep some for yerself,’ I said.

‘The boys don’t eat them.’ Plop, as the scrotal fruit dropped into the bag. ‘Peter used to throw them at David. I’d come out, callin’ at them …’ She stopped and her eyes settled on something near the house. ‘Jesus.’

‘What is it?’ I asked.

She tumbled, corrected herself and ran towards the back step with the mandarins. Kneeling down, she looked under the house. ‘I’ve never seen him before.’