He closes his eyes as though he’s doing a quick mental calculation. ‘That would make sense. You see it was all a long time ago. Disappointing, I suppose, but not entirely surprising. You’re not journalists or anything?’

‘Of course not. We’re children,’ says Susan.

‘Och, you can never tell these days,’ he says. ‘I’ve trusted people in the past and they’ve written some wicked lies.’

Behind us, Andi – who has just come back into the room, now without Dennis – pipes up, ‘Kenneth. They’re from the local school. I told you, do you remember? They’ve come along to see you as part of a community programme.’

‘Oh aye. You said that just now, didn’t you?’ He falls silent and closes his eyes. This goes on for so long that I wonder if he has fallen asleep and I nudge Susan. But then he raises his head again. ‘Andi! More tea, I think. Please.’

He waits until she has gone out, then turns his head and restarts his throat.

‘I’ve had a wee think. Roll me a cigarette and let’s get on with this.’

‘Ro … roll you a cigarette?’ I am astounded. Behind her glasses, Susan’s eyes widen in surprise.

‘Yes. These fingers won’t do the business any more. Arthritis.’ He holds up his gnarled old hands. He jerks his thumb behind him to a flat, furry bag hanging by a leather strap from the back of his chair. ‘You’ll find a packet of tobacco in my sporran. Andi’s not allowed to make me one. Apparently, it’s detrimental to my health, as if I give a rat’s doodle about that in my state! There’s a machine there as well. I’ll talk you through it.’

I open the pouch – his sporran – and notice that next to it, attached to the leather belt, is a knife about fifteen centimetres long, in a polished leather sheath. The handle of the dagger is carved with a pattern that reminds me of the tattoo on Fit Billy’s arm. The old man sees me out of the side of his eye. ‘I can read your mind, laddie,’ he croaks.

He can? Oh no. I hold my breath for the accusation that’s about to come.

‘And the answer is yes,’ he continues. ‘It’s sharp all right. Careful with my dirk!’

I breathe out. For a few minutes, I fiddle with the cigarette equipment on my knee, with Mr McKinley saying things like, ‘No – too much baccy, laddie. No, not like that!’ until eventually Susan says, ‘Let me have a go.’

Thirty seconds later, an almost-perfect cigarette pops out from between the little machine’s rollers. Mr McKinley says, ‘Grand job, lass!’ and I am feeling weirdly angry towards her, as if she has shown me up.

Little Miss Perfect rolls a perfect little cigarette.