Half of Mary’s lunch hit a man called Ian, and the crowd in the courtyard clamoured to help. ‘Ian, oh my God!’ ‘I’ve got a hanky!’ ‘Here’s a tissue!’ Mary was concentrating on keeping the rest of the noodles down and couldn’t think of a famous Ian.

‘Quick, come with me.’ A suave twenty-something took Mary’s hand and pushed his way from the step outside the authors’ toilets into the red velvet of the inner yurt, depositing her on a luxurious bench and shoving a hessian bag in her face. Mary decided to put her head inside it, which sated twenty-something guy. ‘In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. That’s it. What a thing to see. Poor you.’

‘Are you Mary Shields?’ A policewoman had entered the inner yurt, which was basically an enormous vagina: soft, red velvet benches, draped ceilings, pulsating pellet stove in the corner.

Mary took her head out of the bag. ‘I am. I’m Mary Shields.’ Her name sounded heavy and was downright sinister written down. Even Mary’s address seemed to have an edge – 20 Mansion House Square; it scanned with 25 Cromwell Street. The police officer also wrote down her date of birth, her telephone numbers, her employer info, contact details for Roddie, and a brief statement.

The officer pointed to a woman sitting nearby. ‘You and Margaret need to stay here for now,’ she said. ‘We’ll get you out soon. It’s just neds, nothing to be alarmed about. You should know they’ve removed the body but the area has all been sealed off. Can I’ve a minute Bob?’

‘Sure thing,’ said twenty-something Bob, who reclaimed his hessian bag and stood. ‘Ladies, while you wait there’s whisky, tablet and oysters plucked from under the kilts of clansmen. Mary, doll, you get to hang with Margaret. How cool is that?’

Margaret, sitting opposite, was obviously famous like Ian. She was around seventy, wore long boots, leggings and an oversized shirt, and sported a spectacular fuzz-ball of silver hair.

‘I can look after myself,’ she said when Bob had gone. ‘But are you okay?’ Her accent was American, or Canadian.