A drop of head sweat fell on the officer’s shoe while Mary was being scanned, but she was kind enough to ignore it, and escorted her through to the agent’s area. John Paul hadn’t been processed yet, so she had time to look at the court report, compiled two months ago by Sylvia, sixty-three, who refused to type her own reports, dictating into a tape recorder for a typist to finish off. She was regularly called to meetings for referring to the business-support workers as typists. Sylvia’s oration was far from flowing – the business-support workers’ goodwill and hearing seriously deficient – making the end product rarely meaningful. John Paul was in court two months ago for police assault, and Sylvia’s account of the offence read thus:

‘Mr O’Donnell informed the writer that on the night of the offence he had consumed three pints of lager and spent approximately eighty pounds on cocaine, which he had earned selling furniture on Gumtree, which he also consumed. When he presented at the police station around 2.00 a.m. he was by admission probably intoxicated. He informed the writer he recalls losing his phone sometime around getting a chippy at approximately 9.00 p.m. and the next thing finding himself with his shirt off at Govan police station yelling his phone number, over and over, 0734382459, 0734382459, et cetera. While Mr O’Donnell did not deny that he probably committed the offence in the interview with the writer, which is why he pled guilty, he found it difficult to express remorse because he (his words) ‘cannae mind for f *’s sake close inverted commas.’

No wonder Sheriff Mackay hated social workers! Mary scanned the background section for anything that made sense.

‘John Paul’s mother died of a heroin overdose when he was a baby.’

‘Lived with his Grandpa Joseph, a road worker, and was very happy till he carked it.’

‘Got into music with his grandpa, still into it.’

His grandpa was Joseph O’Donnell! In Mary’s mind, John Paul’s grandpa was an elderly man behind a tobacco counter, but he was Mary’s age, or would be if he hadn’t been run over by a truck when John Paul was fourteen. Fourteen: bad age, for a boy. If shit goes down at home and you happen to be fourteen, you’re fucked.

Mary had been a big part of Joseph’s life for a year after he took over the care of JP, as they called the baby then. During one of Mary’s manic clear-outs, she gave Joseph her vinyl collection as a prize for doing everything right and therefore being free of social work forever. Joseph put on Dire Straits, held baby JP and danced round the living room singing with joy. Mary remembered the baby’s bright eyes and his meaty chuckle. He was inclined to be happy, that kid.