Macdowall put his red-filled cup on the table behind him. ‘This is Mary Shields, everyone. My parole officer!’ The audience roared with laughter. Macdowall waited the right amount of time before picking up a bottle of water and twisting the cap. ‘She is damn good at her job, ladies and gentlemen. Did you see that?’ Liam tipped his Evian at Mary and took a sip.

When Mary got to the front of the signing queue, Macdowall grabbed a fresh copy of the book from his pile and poised his pen. ‘Shall I make it out to Mary or Mzzzz Shields?’

‘I don’t want a book, thanks. I waited to tell you you’ll be getting a first formal warning, for drinking.’

Liam leaned in. ‘Did you see me drink wine from the cup? It’s on the table over there if you’d like to get it to forensics.’

Mary was very competitive when it came to holding silences.

‘It’s a bit stalkery, coming to my book launch, is it not?’ he said.

‘I get paid to stalk you, by the Scottish Office.’ Two girl fans in the line behind Mary began giggling. ‘You’re very popular with idiot women.’

‘That’s not a very sisterly thing to say.’ Somehow, Macdowall was now signing a book, which he handed to her. She glanced at the Dear Mary inscription inside and slammed the hardcover shut.

‘Now I’m gonna have to pay for that.’ She walked over to the table, lifted Liam’s plastic cup, smelt it, wrapped it in a tissue, and put it in her bag, returning to Liam’s table to interrupt the next in line. ‘You’ll get the warning letter Tuesday at nine.’

She only dared to look at the inscription once she was back in her car.

To Mary,
Who’s not an idiot,
Unfortunately,
Liam xx

8

Hurtling towards Renfield, Mary organised her thoughts. Her first appointment of the day was Macdowall. She had to give him a written warning, lay down the law, do a ten-minute check-in, and explain the What Were You Thinking? domestic abuse work she was supposed to start straight away. All good, she’d get to Lowfield by eleven, no bother. Shit, was the indecent images cretin at eleven? Mary groped for her diary as she drove and glanced at a messy and overfilled Tuesday. She’d booked the prison interview for ten, which meant she’d have to be done with Macdowall by 9.15 a.m., which meant she had fifteen minutes for all the above. Fifteen minutes, she thought to herself as she draped her ID round her neck and shut the car door. Plenty of time.

Flex Machine says: minus one minute. Yet again, the hours she’d accrued last month had been wiped. Thank God she was leaving. She’d head-butt the machine otherwise.

Prior to 9.00 a.m., Mary managed the usual conversation with Lil.

‘Ten, one. What are you?’