Aw, there was Jack in bed, age about seven, his dad sitting beside him, telling him ‘facts’, as he did every night for years. As a result of this ritual, Jack could now win any quiz in town. While the delivery changed, Roddie and Jack had continued swapping facts ever since. The two of them never stopped talking. Arguing. When Mary tried to join in, she regretted it. She knew nothing about Catalonia or utilitarianism.

In the sixth album, Jack was making a Malaysian banquet for Christmas dinner. Perhaps wrongly, she had viewed his love of cooking as a sign that she had got it right.

Jack might not be on her side anymore. He might hate her. He might be roaring that his mother ruined him, that it was his mother’s fault; she was the reason.

How could that be?

She began picking at her wart.

The key’s under the mat, Mary imagined. I tip-toe in, download the pen drive onto McLaverty’s laptop and leave.

The key’s under the mat. I am wearing a trench coat. I walk in, download the pen drive, and leave.

The key’s not under the mat. I kick the door in with my River Island boot. They’ve found their place with the trench coat. Always knew they would. I walk in, download the pen drive, leave the door snubbed open and exit. Later that night, I don a disguise, walk somewhere random and make an anonymous call to the police with the disposable mobile I’ve bought. The husky voice I use totally works with the outfit. I throw the mobile away and head home, smiling, because I have stopped Derek McLaverty. In bed I imagine Derek McLaverty being escorted to the sex-offender’s unit in Lowfield. He is the lowest of the low. A work squad passes in the quadrangle, and someone calls him a beast, another guy spits on him. One day soon, a rapist or a wife-beater will kick the shit out of him to gain status, as advised by Liam Macdowall in his book Cuck. When he gets out, someone like me will stop him from seeing his kids, going to the pool, having a dog, getting a job, taking a holiday, being online: you must not, you must not; you will not, you will not. Someone like me will approve his ground-floor unfurnished flat on a ghost estate ruled by vigilantes, and someone like me will spring visits on him to check how often he wanks and what he thinks about when he comes. He’ll be forced to do groupwork with the other registered sex offenders, and even those guys will hate him; even the guy who raped his granddaughter will feel superior because McLaverty’s a Denier and everyone hates a Denier.