Mary managed to make herself look human in time for court, but it turned out to be quite a complicated process. The glue she’d used on her tooth had turned dark brown. No matter how hard she scrubbed, she could not restore its original colour. She’d have to keep her mouth shut at all times. She practised in the mirror, pursing her lips and saying ‘Yes, your honour! Mary Shields, twenty Mansion House Square, your honour!’ It was a tad blow-jobby. Hopefully, Mary would not need to talk in court.

In the shower she noticed quite a few injuries that she could not explain. If the police saw the state of her, Roddie would never get out. There was a huge gash on her ankle, and fresh blood trickled into the drain. She had a cut on her foot, scratch marks on her calves and neck, and a range of bruises on her thighs and shoulders.

She weighed 9st 8lb. She’d lost four pounds. Mary retrieved her long forgotten 9st 8lb trousers and drove to court.

The protestors outside Renfield Sheriff Court seemed the same shape and size as at Lowfield on the day of Liam Macdowall’s release. (Was that really eleven days ago?) There were forty or so men. About twenty women. They didn’t chant, and only a few of them carried standard-issue placards. The men did not wear t-shirts with the letter C. The women did not hate Mary. Everyone seemed tired, and a little confused. It seemed to Mary that the men and women only separated to clear a path for her.

On the way in, service-providers, or people, as Mary preferred to call them, handed her their cards – Assist, Victim Support, Women’s

Aid. There were no official services for the likes of Roddie. Mary tried hard to avoid McLaverty’s velvet-suited lawyer, but he accosted her outside court four.

‘Listen, Mary, sorry and all that. I’m an arsehole – it’s my job. Can we talk shop? I’m here for John Paul O’Donnell.’

‘He’s in court?’

‘Down in the cells; custody court. He walked in the station early this morning asking to be arrested. Convinced five officers, eventually. The usual: got his hands on some money, too much coke, can’t recall a thing. Will you root for him? Give him another shot?’

‘Of course I will,’ Mary said. ‘CPO et cetera; you name it.’ She’d do anything, in fact, because it was her fault.

She took a seat behind Adeela and Roddie, whose body remained steadfastly facing forwards, and who tapped his fingers on the bench.

Adeela turned around as mediator. ‘He’s pleading guilty.’

‘What?’

‘What the hell have you done with that tooth?’ Adeela lowered to a whisper. ‘Is that … is that also tooth? What is that in between? Why is it brown? Keep your mouth closed.’ She sniffed. ‘Have you showered?’

She had. Had she done it badly?