'You're off your heid.'

'Heh, imagine you made a guitar oot a machine gun. It would be mental.'

'No' wide enough.'

'An electric wan - wouldnae need a soundboard.'

'It would need a neck wide enough for six strings,' Lexy pointed out.

'It would look cool but, wouldn't it?'

302.

'No' really. Guitars are ancient, man. My da listens tae bands wi' guitars. The Manic Street Preachers an' aw that geriatric stuff. Pure Arran sweater music, man.'

'Aye. I heard you got a free pipe an' slippers wi' their last CD. Ma auld man's worse. He listens tae this band The Clash, fae aboot a hunner year ago. Tooooommy guuuun,' he sang. 'That's wan o' theirs. Gerrit? Tommy gun.'

'Speakin' of which,' Lexy said, nodding towards the wall-mounted arsenal.

'Aye, right enough.'

'Where's the ammo again?'

'That crate there, or the wan next tae it,' Murph advised.

'Right.'

'Whit?'

'I've got an idea for gettin' oot o' here.'

Lexy took a magazine from the ammo crate and handed another to Lexy, then removed a machine gun of his own from the wall. Murph slammed his clip into the empty breach like he had seen in the films, then bent down to pick it up when it fell out on to the floor.

'Wrang way roon, Murph. The bullets come oot pointy- end first.'

'Cheeky bastart. It's dark in here, remember. Whit's the plan?'

'Gie's a hand an' I'll show you.'

Each pocketing one more magazine for good measure, they resealed the lid on the ammunition crate - the first place they reckoned the bad guys would look - then set about moving the contents of two crates of explosives to their own former refuge beneath the blankets. Not an ingenious hiding place, Lexy knew, but the purpose was to create confusion and buy them time: the plan was to run, not fight.

303.

'But where are we supposed to hide when they come back?' Murph protested.

'Ever heard the story of the Trojan horse?'

'Naw.'

'What aboot The Hobbit?' Lexy tried, thinking of Bilbo's unseen escape in a barrel. Both of their English classes had done it in First Year.

'Naw.'

Lexy sighed. 'Forget it. When you hear somebody comin', just jump intae a crate, awright?'

'Sound.'

'And in the meantime . . .'

304.survivors' mutual counselling group .Ray looked at himself again in the sunshade mirror. He could use a shower and a shave, but at least he no longer looked like a vagrant. Whether that was desirable under his current fugitive status remained to be seen, what with the police not likely to be putting out any APBs in search of a piss-smelling bin-raker.

He felt better, that was for sure. He'd managed to give his face a good scrub and shake most of the dust from his hair, but really wished he could do something about the stubble. On TV, people always had a five o'clock shadow when they got huckled, so he felt dressed for arrest. The innocent and unsuspected members of society were always crisp-collared and clean-shaven, and that was what he wanted to look like right then.

The car would help. Step out of a top-of-the-range number like that with jeans, T-shirt and a bit of growth and you looked like a pop star or an Internet millionaire. Same get-up coming out of, say, a fucked black Polo, and you looked like precisely the dubious sort likely to abduct thirteen-year-old schoolboys.

Anyway, he knew that being recognised was among the least of his worries. Scrubbed, manky, shaven or not, he looked nothing like the photo in the paper, and even if he did, who was likely to notice the match? He'd seen wanted pictures and Photofits a hundred times, and forgotten the face as soon as he turned the page and saw some actress 305.

falling out of her dress at a movie premiere. The only people actively looking for him were the cops, the armed psychos and the bampots who'd gathered outside his house. The bampots weren't going to find him here, and would most probably be at the Special Brew by now; while the cops weren't going to spot him inside a big, posh motor that belonged to someone else. That said, he couldn't hide out in a supermarket car park forever, not least because the armed psychos did know what registration to be scoping for.

Kate had been strong, one of the few things he had to be grateful for over the last forty-eight hours. If she had gone to pieces, he'd probably have followed. He knew that the second he started feeling sorry for himself was the second he'd remember he was just an ordinary shmo with a job, mortgage, wife and kid, and thus utterly inequipped to cope with all of this.

There was a strong urge to just go home. The police and the bampots would have to be faced, but he felt sure he could deal with both once he'd had time to hold Kate and Martin again. What he couldn't deal with was that his abductors knew where he lived, and the last thing he wanted was to lead them back home. Admittedly, they could be waiting for him there already, but right now so were the cops, meaning Kate and Martin would be safe as long as he remained on the run.

To protect his family, he had to stay away from them: it was just the latest absurdity in this through-the-looking- glass world he'd been dropped into. He'd been shot at, kidnapped, mock-executed, interrogated, imprisoned and then finally escaped in time to find he was suspected of abducting two teenagers. In the case of this last, once the shock had passed, his initial reaction was that it was a coincidence of the type that could only happen when your luck 306.

was already in minus figures. Two boys from his school had gone missing and so had he. That was the only connection. He had a damn good alibi, but unfortunately the witnesses concerned might be a little reluctant to come forward, nor was he in a big hurry to ask them.

However, as he sat in the Rover and wondered emptily what his next move should be, he found some smoking embers of logic in his frazzled brain questioning whether so many wacked-out occurrences could really be unrelated. If he had disappeared from work without telling anybody - say because Martin became ill and they ended up at the hospital overnight - on the same day as two boys from the school went missing, then that would be a coincidence. Disappearing from work without telling anybody - say because two pricks put a gun to his head and stuck him in an abandoned farmhouse overnight - on the same day as two boys from the school went missing, was almost certainly not.

The boys' disappearance had to be linked to his, just as his disappearance was now definitely linked to the two gunmen taking pops at him on the Cart bridge. And if probability dictated that these bizarre events could not be coincidental, then what did that imply for the most bizarre event of all, particularly given that it had been the first of the sequence? It was absurd but true that two strangers had turned up with silenced automatics and tried to shoot him en route to picking up a chicken passanda and a lamb jalfrezi. It was absurd but true that two more numpties had kidnapped him halfway through the Second Years' morning double period, then wheeched him and his car away in a juggernaut. It was absurd but true that there were now protestors outside his home accusing him of being a paedophile and possibly a child-killer.

307.

He had seen Simon Darcourt walking out of Domestic Arrivals at Glasgow Airport. That was also absurd. But...It took about three hours to drive north from Crieff, keeping within the speed limit at all times, this being the worst day of his life to get stopped by the boys in blue. He had to fill up on the outskirts of Aberdeen, which added some time too. With most of his cash spent at the supermarket, he was left with the options of lifting more from the machine on the forecourt or paying by card, both of which would record his location and time of transaction. However, if the cops were going to those lengths to track him down, they'd catch up with him soon enough anyway, and it wouldn't tilt the odds in his favour any if he had no petrol.

One plus point of the pit stop was that he noticed the northern edition of the Recorder wasn't carrying his story. This shouldn't really have been a surprise, it being the city where the local paper legendarily led on the Titanic disaster with the headline 'North-East Man Lost at Sea', but it was a relief nonetheless.

Ray made it to the estate around four. There was every chance she wouldn't still be there, but if so, maybe there'd be a forwarding address. It wasn't like he was spoilt for alternative options.

He recognised the place from after the memorial service, and remembered the route from the church as flagged by roundabouts and supermarkets. He didn't know the number or even the name of the street, but he recalled the house's position opposite a T-junction and the fact that it was a darker shade of red brick than its neighbours either side. At the time, Ray remembered thinking how it was so 308.

not Simon, and wondered how he could possibly have fitted in. His snobbery was bound to have been viciously double-edged: it wasn't just that the estate was decidedly un-rock'n'roll and thus erred unforgivably on the side of respectability, but Simon, having grown up in a Victorian- built sandstone villa in Giffnock and spoken often about the importance of living somewhere with a sense of individuality, would have considered it vulgar as well as bourgeois.

In one way, it was actually the perfect neighbourhood for the Dark Man, as Ray always believed his greatest fear must be that he'd end up somewhere he belonged, where he'd have no-one to feel different from or superior to.

Ray didn't fancy the place much himself back then, but wasn't so dismissive now. Even if he wasn't fired or jailed, he knew he was never going to have the secluded mansion with the recording studio in the basement and six-seater Jacuzzi in the en-suite, so a pretty, clean and quiet suburban neighbourhood on the edge of the countryside was nothing to be sniffed at, especially with a wee one at your feet. There were lots of kids playing on the pavements, bikes left unguarded outside front doors, garages open invitingly to reveal toys, garden swings and washer/driers. It was very 'choose life' and twee to the point of smug, but it was also obvious that crime and fear didn't stalk the place either.

Ray parked in front of the house and took a breath, working out how to play it in the happy event that she was still there. Obviously a knock at the door, a brief hello and then asking whether her deceased bidey-in might actually be still alive and running about with the bullet- brigade was not on. He'd just have to get her talking and see what was there to be found. There'd been a small 309.

gathering at the house after the service, and they had spoken then for a few minutes in the kitchen, Ray having gathered up the used disposable plates and brought them through from the living room in an attempt to make himself useful. He had been feeling awkward and hypocritical about being there, not just given his history with the deceased, but because the wake had been announced as being 'for any family and friends who wish to attend' and despite technically not fitting either category, he had been dying for a pee and thus tagged along. Clearing up the debris from the sausage rolls had seemed the least he could do for the use of her lavvy and a drink of Irn-Bru. They didn't speak for long, but there had definitely been a connection and a sense that they might have a lot more to say to each other under different circumstances. Either that or Alison was just very good at talking and listening to people. Living with Simon, she'd definitely have needed to be the latter.

Ray got out of the car and walked to the driveway, where for the third time in as many days he found himself looking down the barrel of a gun. This time his assailant didn't miss.

Ray dropped to his knees, clutching his chest, the damp seeping into his fingers through his T-shirt.

'Ya got me,' he said, looking up in time to see the gun being levelled for the coup de grace.

'Connor/ said a female voice. 'No.'

But it was too late. The trigger was pulled and Ray got a faceful of cold water, accompanied by an impish laugh.

'Connor.'

Ray wiped his eyes and got a good look at his assassin. On any other day, he'd have found it pretty freaky, but today it simply belonged: he was looking at Simon 310.

Darcourt in miniature. The guy wasn't dead, he had merely shrunk.

'Ha ha ha - all wet/ mini-Simon said, grinning. Ray, for his part, was grateful for the soaking, it being the equivalent of a slap in the face after which he could be sure he wasn't seeing things.

'God, I'm really sorry.'

He turned his head to see Alison McRae, Simon's onetime significant other, hurrying across the grass towards him. She looked better than he'd remembered, and she'd looked pretty good then; at least as good as the bereaved can look at a wake. She was about five foot ten, long sandy blonde hair, with angular features, a face that looked coldly but perfectly sculpted until she smiled, when it warmed up a treat. There was a vivid sparkle to her eyes that had been understandably missing back then. Ray wished he could take a picture back to show Kate: proof that there was such a thing as a maternal glow, once the sleepless nights and physical ravages had been left behind.

'It's no bother/ Ray said. 'He's a crack shot.'

'Crack pot more like. Aren't you, monster?' she said, picking him up in her arms. It was affection and defence: Ray may have been soaked and apologised to, but he was still an unknown quantity. He got to his feet, hoping she'd clocked the upmarket car and subtracted it from the vagabond effect of the face-fuzz and cheap threads.

'Can I help you?' she asked. Some people had a way of making that question sound a lot like 'fuck off, but fortunately she didn't seem to be one of them.

'I don't know if you remember me. My name is-'

'Raymond. Sorry, I didn't recognise you at first. You were at the funeral.'

'That's right. Eh ... you said to drop by if I was ever 311.

in the area. It's been a wee while, I know, but I was passing through, so ... Is this a bad time?'

'Yes. I mean no. I mean yes I said that and no, it's not a bad time. I think I owe you the use of a towel at least.'

'Man all wet.'

'Yes, he is, Connor. And whose fault's that?'

'Mine,' he said gleefully.

'Come on in.'

Ray bent to pick up the water pistol.

'No, just leave it there. It's not even his. It belongs to Wendy next door. I think she's inside getting her tea.'

Alison led him through to her living room and gestured to him to take a seat. 'What you doing up in this neck of the woods?'

'I was visiting a friend,' he lied. 'Dropping off some computer gear.'

'Oh. Are you still in that line?'

'Em, unbelievable as it may sound, I'm an English teacher these days.'

'So why aren't you in school?'

Ray held his breath for a second, trying to decide whether this constituted suspicion or merely chitchat.

'Holiday weekend for Glasgow schools. Friday to Monday.'

'Missing it?'

'Oh aye. I live for it.'

She smiled, much to his relief. 'I'll fetch you that towel.'

Connor took her absence as his cue to begin handing Ray toys from the floor, one after the other. There seemed to be no purpose to Ray's role other than to accept them, though putting them down on the settee was cheating, and resulted in them being handed over a second time. Ray gave his best shot to accommodating the pile, all the time 312.

beguiled by the child's likeness to, presumably, his dad. He was like George W Bush, in that he looked more like his father than his father looked like his father. Wheels began whirring. Maybe Alison wasn't going to get a towel, but was about to walk in with a gun and blow him away to protect the secret he'd stumbled upon. Given his current environment, however, it seemed a little out of context.

'Oh, he does that to visitors,' Alison said, returning with the towel. 'He normally waits until you've got a cup of tea in your hand, right enough. Would you like one?'

'I've never wanted one more in my life,' he said, honestly.

They each had a seat in the kitchen while Connor watched TV next door. The kid's viewing lasted less than ninety seconds before he was in after them, offering Ray more toys. Alison red-carded him and sent him back outside, where she could hear the aforementioned Wendy returning to the fray.

She sighed with relief as he bombed through the door, wincing only a little as it slammed loudly behind him.

'You got any kids, Raymond?'

'One. Martin. He's three months.'

'You poor bastard. They get better.'

'So I keep hearing.'

'I know. When they can walk and talk they're a lot of fun. Actually, once they're old enough to realise you'd have them in a square go, things get a lot easier.'

'I've a cheek to complain. You're on your own.'

'Yeah,' she said, contemplatively, perhaps thinking back. 'I got a lot of help. The girls either side have kids.'

Ray couldn't wait any more. 'Forgive me for prying, but I have to ask. He's . . . there's something very familiar . . .'