‘I’ll let them know. They’re going to arrest him at three, on the way out. Ring me straight after and we’ll go through your diary. You’ll need a medical certificate if you’re off till Friday. I want to see you Monday. Do you think your GP can confirm what’s wrong? That you have The Menopause?’

Mary paused – ‘Yes. I reckon he fucking well can’ – and screeched out of the carpark as fast as she’d screeched in. The difference between how she felt before she arrived was huge as well as miniscule. She had the same amount of adrenaline right now, but she was using it like she did when she was young, excited, infatuated, a new homeowner, a new mum; she was channelling it into driving too fast; into hating her boss, Catherine, who had not suggested kindly that she should about-face and go to bed; into hating McKinley and his disappearing baby-sex-bot; into hating Dr Shearer’s Terrifying Receptionist, who could easily have put the god-doctor-figure on the phone but didn’t because she had the power not to; and into hating Dr Liam Macdowall and his prick of a daughter, both of whom had somehow managed to weasel their way into her beautiful boy’s life. Just you dare, you screwed up cunts, just you dare.

13

Mary battled through the festival traffic to Princes Street but couldn’t turn left into Charlotte Square. She could see from her car that the festival and surrounds had been overtaken by chanting protestors, who were, at this stage, peaceful, the two teams walking round the square in opposite directions, thus far without collision. Men’s rights activists and co. walked clockwise; feminists et cetera walked anticlockwise. Mary wondered if they’d tossed for it. Police dotted either side of the road. The two teams were almost equal in their chants.

She headed down to Roddie’s old haunt, Stockbridge, to find a park. It was 2.00 p.m. The gig would have started already. Mary decided to sprint up the hill to town, well a Munro rather than a hill, as it turned out, disguised by excellent architecture. Mary used to be able to run for miles. She sometimes wondered if running could still be her thing, if she trained. Maybe running would be the thing she’d be known for.

Her work-issue Blackberry buzzed halfway up Mont de Stockbridge. Mary decided to answer as an excuse to rest.

‘Hi Mary, it’s Doctor Shearer. I’ve been trying to reach you since Friday. Liam Macdowall didn’t collect his prescription for sertraline after his release, as planned. He got them this morning. The pharmacist said he looked a little under the influence of alcohol.’

‘So, he hasn’t had his meds since he got out?’

‘That’s what I’m saying.’

‘And this morning he got a whole packet?’

‘That’s what I’m—’