They were all raging. Must be awful, being told what to do by an idiot social worker.

‘But why are you talking about children?’ Derek said. ‘Why would your colleagues have to get involved if there is a child? Liam’s not a paedophile!’

Mary was bored with the constant nit-pickery and conflict. Every day she had to make up scenarios and make up protective restrictions and then make up answers like this: ‘Mr McLaverty, if you met someone online, say, then had a date or two, introduced him or her to your kids, and you all really have a nice time, you think this is gonna go somewhere, and it does, and you start falling in love with him or her as much as the children are. Then you find out the new love of your life killed his or her spouse. I wouldn’t like that. Social workers wouldn’t like that. They’d want you to have all the information you need to ensure the safety of your children. Shall we move on?’ She hoped no-one could see the sweat dripping down her chest.

Holly and the lawyer had all crossed their arms but not as tightly as Derek.

Liam was the only one still maintaining composure. ‘If happiness seems imminent, you’ll be the first to know.’

It’d be quite easy to pounce across the table and stab him in the eye.

And breathe.

‘Okay.’ Mary exhaled. ‘So as long as I’ve checked out and approved the Shawlands flat, you’ll be released on life licence this Friday, so I’ll see you at twelve noon, Friday, Kenneth House, 10 Grange Road.’

Derek had turned to page one of his hefty PR itinerary. ‘But Liam’s doing an interview.’

Mary opened the document. The 2.00 p.m. radio programme was the first of about ten events happening every day over the next month. She closed the itinerary and the meeting.

‘Ask for me at reception.’

When she got home, Mary gifted Roddie a Skype-gasm. He was obviously behaving himself – all she needed to do was show him her boobs, the only part of her body that had improved in recent months.

It was only 9.00 p.m. when Mary settled into bed with her laptop and a book. She Googled the novel’s title – Cuck – and was surprised to discover a world of porn hitherto outwith her radar, an author pic of Liam Macdowall in the mix. She raced to the kitchen for some mega-fresh AAA batteries.

This might well have been the day, the hour, the minute, the moment, that she made the decision that ruined her life. She opened the book at ‘Letter Nineteen’, which she had read several times already, switched on her bunny, and set the consequences in motion, chanting out loud as she reread: I must not think about that, I must not think about that.

2

CUCK, by Dr Liam Macdowall

The Nineteenth Letter

Dearest Bella,