"We'd barely strayed on to the subject when you started getting all-"

"Two days you've been here, Martin. Why haven't you asked me what I think about the very subject that brought you back to Braeside?"

He says nothing. He could deflect, deny, come up with something, but what's the point? They both know she's right.

"Must be murder for you, just now," she says, breaking a grim silence.

"What must?"

"Nobody's allowed to be as clever as you. You resent the success of these numpties you talked aboot because you think they're not as clever as you; and you resented playing second fiddle to folk like me and Colin at school for the exact same reason. So it must be murder bein back in this town and knowin less than everybody else, that big brain of yours unable tae come up with all the right answers."

There is another silence, even bleaker than the last. He decides he'll be the one to fill it. She's just taken him apart so she shouldn't complain if he responds in kind.

"You ought to be careful, there, Jojo," he says coldly. "I think your insecurities might be showing. Same as they were the time you ritually slaughtered me in front of everyone way back when."

This, he knows, will bring the old Jojo fully to the fore. If it's going to end as bitterly as it began, then so be it. At least she won't be able to tell herself all that shite about folk not being who they once were.

Jojo bows her head so he can't see her face. When she raises it again, he'll take both barrels, and then he'll be out of here. She runs a hand through her hair. Here it comes.

But when Jojo sits up straight again, there are tears forming in her eyes, as well as anger that he's seeing this.

"And what if my insecurities are showing, Martin?" she asks, just about managing to steady her voice. "Am I not allowed to feel undervalued as well? Am I not allowed to be pissed off because you're not remotely interested in me for who I am?"

"I'm about as interested as you've ever been in me."

She wipes at her eyes and smears her make-up a little. "Aye, well," she says. "I guess you're no as smart as I thought. Nobody at our school was immune to feeling overlooked, Martin. Nobody gets spared the feeling that they're worthless in somebody else's eyes." She stands up. "The last train to Glasgow leaves in aboot five minutes," she informs him, then walks away.

Martin stands up too, in that moment remembering something not quite too late. "I did ask you what you thought," he says.

For a moment, he is sure she's going to ignore it and keep walking, but she turns.

"Excuse me?" she asks, folded arms accentuating a defensive hostility.

"I did ask what you thought and you dodged it. I asked what you thought Eleanor meant and you said you didn't know."

"I didn't know. I don't know."

"You deduced that she was scared she'd given something away, and yet you're claiming you never speculated what that was?"

"Oh, Christ, of course I speculated, but what's that worth to anybody?"

"It's worth something to me. That's why I asked. That's why I'm asking now."

They stare at each other from a few feet away, a real gun-slinger duel of a stare. She's weighing up many things: face, spite, anger, and the best way to serve all three.

She licks her lips, her tongue just the slightest protrusion between them. "I think the sleazy bastard had a peep-hole," she says, then glances at the clock. "You're gaunny miss your train."

Third Year XI Bootis 2 Solvent Abuse Thank fuck it's Friday afternoon. Just one double period to go and then home for tea, before the school disco tonight. Should be a laugh. Plus he'll get to see all the lassies dressed up, though seeing is about as much as Robbie will have a chance of. Doesn't matter. The lassies in his year are all fucking cows and snobs anyway. Not like the ones he's heard Boma and Joe talking about. Sounds like the lassies in their years were less tight. Course, Boma and Joe could be talking shite. It wouldn't be the first time.

It's been a long week: the first week back since, you know. First week back after holidays is always slow. This week was like that but worse. After holidays, everybody's trying to get their act together again, not just you. And making it more awkward is the awareness that every cunt must know. A long week, sure, but the two before it were a sight longer, were they not? Aye, and they could have been longer still, could have been shorter, in extreme ways he doesn't like to think about.

The doctors said he was lucky. Didn't feel very fucking lucky. Thousands of cunts sniffing glue every day and this never fucking happens to them, does it? So what's fucking lucky about it? But he knows fine what's fucking lucky about it. He could have ended up like one of those poor bastards on the news. One of the real stories, he means, on the telly news. Not the papers, the Daily Record and all that shite, whose take on glue is to keep coming out with pish about some daft cunt attacking somebody because they're on a trip and think he's a fucking werewolf or something. He means the nae-kidding glue stories: pan breid, or a fucking vegetable or something. And all for what? Sniffing solvent out a fucking crisp poke to get a buzz. Fucking pathetic, now he's looking back at it. Probably wouldn't have got into it if he'd been able to get hold of some Woodpecker or Merrydown that first time, but who the fuck's going to serve him? Even the bigger guys, like Tempo and Panda, get big brothers or pay somebody older to buy them their carry-outs.

He remembers the day he first did the glue. He was fed up hearing all the stories from other cunts about getting a carry-out and getting steamboats. He had gone round collecting ginger bottles for the deposits; did it every night of the week until he had enough for a bottle of cider. He gave the money to Boma to buy it for him, but the bastard fucked off with the bottle himself and scudded Robbie in the dish when he complained about it. Not as if he could tell his maw, was it? "Mammy, your sixteen-year-old has just knocked your fourteen-year-old's kerry-out." So that was him fucked. No drink and no money. And it's not as if you can knock booze, either, because it's all kept behind the counter at the Paki's, with fucking bars and wire, like a cage. You can knock glue, but. No danger. They're talking about making the shopkeepers demand proof of age before they can buy it, sixteen minimum, same as fags. You don't need proof of age to fucking thieve it, but, do you?

So that was him sorted out for a Friday night: tube of Bostik and a packet of fucking Space Raiders. He remembers the room birling, remembers liking it. Remembers the fucking headache he had the next day as well, but it's amazing how quick you can forget something like that when you're bored out your tits the next night and there's still glue left. He must have done it four or five times before he got 'lucky' and ended up in the Alexandra Infirmary with a fucking tube down his throat. In and out of consciousness for three days. He remembers opening his eyes and it being night-time, blinking and it was day. Remembers folk round the bed before he was sharp enough to make them out properly. Maw and Da arguing, though he couldn't always hear what they were saying. Maw was upset, Da just angry. That was usually the script at home, right enough.

He remembers her having a right go at Da for something he said, but doesn't recall what it was. "You never treated Joe and Brian like that," she says.

"Aye well," Da says back. "I wonder how no."

Then she was greeting again, and Robbie fell asleep. Or maybe he just pretended to be asleep.

He got a get-well card from the school. Nurses brought it in to him once he had the tube out and he was sitting upright. They were all busy at somebody else's bed when he opened it, which was just as well, because he wouldn't have wanted anybody to see him. He was greeting, for fuck's sake. Him. He doesn't greet about anything, not even when Boma or his da really stoat him one. But this, fuck. Just kind of snuck up on him, greeting before he even knew it. All the names, man, and wee messages. They must have passed it round the social area, off their own backs, as opposed to something a teacher organised and made every cunt in the class sign. He can tell because it's mostly boys, and it's boys from all the classes, not just 3S6. They've had a whip-round as well: got him a fiver record token.

He doesn't know why it made him greet, but he was pure bubbling like a wee wean. Then he got kind of angry about it. He resented the thought of folk feeling sorry for him, thinking of him as weak or like a fucking spastic or something. Well, he wouldn't be having that. It was nice to get the card, but that didn't mean anybody could take the pish. He would panel the first cunt to say anything out of order, no matter who it was.

But there was no escaping what the card told him about how it looked from the outside: he's been a stupid cunt, and everybody knows he's been a stupid cunt. That was the hardest thing about going back to school this week: embarrassment. Knowing every bastard's looking at you and thinking about what happened to you. He's felt it before, back in First Year when Big Tempo broke his nose and burst his mouth. This is far worse, because they're not picturing a fight or all that blood spraying about; they're picturing him splayed out on his bedroom floor with his neb stuck in a crisp poke.

Christ, looking back on it, the fight with Tempo's almost something to be proud of by comparison, considering his stature now. Folk looking at the pair of them these days would think Robbie must have been pretty brave to have a go at all, never mind the outcome. Tempo's mother must have been feeding him Popeye's fucking spinach or something, because he just shot up in height and beefed out in build, too. And like his hammering of Robbie, it didn't go unnoticed. Once folk were talking about it, it was only a matter of time before some hard cunt decided they wanted their go, and the smart money was always going to be on Jai Burns. Jai saw it as a day wasted if he never punched somebody, and he was the one that most wanted the reputation as the hardest in the year, especially with the likes of Kenny, Chick and Richie more interested in the fitba team or winching or whatever. It was a fucking miracle it took him as long as it did to start a fight with Tempo. It happened about halfway through Second Year. He'd had a few attempts, right enough, but Temps never rose to the bait. When it finally happened, it was because Temps was mouthing off, not the other way around. Temps is a mouthy bastard to everybody now, but he'd been careful around Jai up to that point. Robbie reckons Temps knew this was unavoidable and decided just to get it over with when he was feeling up for it. Mr Sullivan and Mr Blake broke it up, but Tempo was knocking fuck out of Jai when they did. Jai tried to make out otherwise to any cunt that would listen, but if Jai believed it himself, he'd have made sure it got finished properly after school, whereas he did fuck-all.

Tempo hasn't fought anybody since. Nobody's fancied noising him up, for one thing, but it's mainly because Temps isn't interested in fighting. He's interested in fanny.

Robbie's got on fine with him since their fight in First Year, which is even more surprising considering they never liked each other before that. It was a bit awkward for a while, as you'd expect, but fair play to Tempo: he could have been a pure cunt about it and he wasn't. Takes the pish a bit, but he does that to everybody. It was Temps who came up with Robbie's new nickname: Turbo. Turbo Turner. Sounds gallus, doesn't it? A proper nickname, like Boma's got. Just as well, too, because Christ knows what some bastard might have saddled him with over the glue-sniffing.

This last period is science, which is usually all right, sometimes a laugh. He's sitting with Noodsy, who he hangs about with a lot these days since Noodsy moved house to just up the back from Robbie's bit. Next to Noodsy is George Sanford, who used to be called George Spamford because he was in the remedial group. General George, they call him now, because he isn't in any O-Grade classes, not even arithmetic-just general science, general maths, general English...

They get Mr Boyd for science. He's a dozy bastard-literally on a Friday afternoon, because that's the day the teachers hit the pub at lunchtime, and he's the one who gets the most bewied. He must be pretty puggled first class back in the afternoon, but by the final double period he's ready for sleeping it off, especially if the room's warm and there are no windows open. Even if he doesn't actually nod off, he's not at his most observant, so it's usually an easy shift to wind down the week.

It's raining outside, which is a bugger, because it puts the knackers on their favourite Friday afternoon game of taking it in turns to go out the window. Noodsy started it a few weeks back. Just climbed out because he was bored, went for a walk about and then came back in. Didn't even need anybody to keep the edgy-just keeked in to see what Boyd was up to and then chose his moment to return. What was dead funny was that Boyd must have noticed something was different but couldn't suss out what it was. You could see it in his face after Noodsy came back in. He was like, "Was that seat not empty a wee minute ago?" Fucking funny as fuck.

It became a game the next Friday when Noodsy did it again, except this time he fucked off with Robbie's jotter. Came back in and told him he'd planked it next to the nearside hockey goals, which meant Robbie had to climb out and get it back before the period was finished and his work was due in for marking. Now they have challenges: one of them planks something at afternoon interval and the others have a race to get outside and find it. Nobody's been caught yet, but fuck knows how not. One time, Boyd went up the back and shut the window because of the draught, with General George still stuck outside. Fair play to GG, though, he just walked back in through the school and right in the door of the class.

Boyd says: "Where have you been?"

GG goes: "I was taking that book back to Miss Coleman, like you tellt me," all put out at the accusation and leaving Boyd standing there looking confused. Aye, he might be in the remedial group, GG, but the cunt's not stupid.

With the rain on, they'll be left with their other favourite pastime, which is stealing school gear. There's not actually much that's worth stealing, not that that's ever stopped anybody, but the kind of pointlessness of it did lead to a new game. Now the idea is to see who can plank the biggest and most stupid thing in somebody else's bag, with extra credit if they leave the place without noticing. Sometimes they notice and go home with it anyway, for a laugh. Science is the best for this game, because it's the class with the most gear, though Robbie wishes they'd got into it back in home Eeks. Secretarial Studies has potential, but the teacher, Miss Hannon, is a bit too sharp-eyed. Shame, really. It's an ambition among them all to get a typewriter out of there, or at least to get one inside some other cunt's bag, just to see the look on his face when he goes to lift it.

Boyd hasn't been to the pub. It's the week afore payday, so that'll be why. Surprisingly, the lesson really flies in. Boyd being more on the ball than usual, he gets round to setting up some experiments for a change, instead of setting them an exercise and snuggling down for a kip. Still, at times like this folk's guards are down, so you have to take advantage. The opportunity arises when it comes time to start dismantling the equipment. Everybody's busy with something or other, plus there's nothing suspicious about being on the other side of the room from your own seat. Folk always sling their jackets and bags in a big pile on the worktops running down either side of the class, and these days if you're seen hovering about them, folk know to check their gear before heading for home. A lot of the stuff has been shifted along to make room for equipment or for folk getting into overhead cupboards, so nobody cottons on when Robbie starts lifting the odd coat or bag. He then makes a point of helping Scan Cassidy put away some beakers, then goes back to his seat. The last few minutes take pure ages because he can't wait for Boyd to give them the nod. He usually lets them get ready to go home a few minutes before the bell, specially on a Friday, but he's still blethering about the experiment as the clock approaches four. Must be only a minute-to when he finally says, "Pack up." Everybody jumps for their gear, but Robbie says to Noodsy to stay put a wee minute and watch big Kenny Langton over the other side.

Scan Cassidy nearly ruins it because he picks up his jacket first and finds he needs to unhook a toggle from the shaft, but fortunately his coat was at the top. Kenny lifts up his bag with both handles, finds it snagged, and gives it a real tug. Four coats and two bags rise up into the air like they've come to life, causing some of the lassies to let out a screech. They're all threaded through a four-foot metal clamp-stand, the base of which has been planked inside Kenny's bag. The bag's zipped up just shy of all the way so the shaft pokes out, but he wouldn't have noticed because the first coat was covering the gap.

Kenny's pure pishing himself. Boyd kind of rolls his eyes, but reckons no harm done. He sees this carry-on nearly every week, and there's no way that lazy cunt's making a fuss about something when the Friday bell's about to let him head for the boozer. Kenny's asking around to see who did it. Robbie says nothing, but Noodsy points to him, which Robbie is happy about because in the end he wants the credit.

They're all still laughing about it-and all still trying to disentangle their gear from the clamp-stand-when the bell rings. Robbie reluctantly has to take his eyes off the scene over the other side as he turns round to get his own bag and jacket. He's so distracted by what's going on across the way that he forgets to check nothing's been planked inside, but as soon as he lifts it, he can tell there's too much weight. Tube that he is, he was so busy setting up Kenny that he forgot to be keeping an eye on his own stuff.

Usually, if you've clocked it early, the thing to do is sneak it back out your bag and act like nothing happened, but it's kind of accepted that if the bell's gone, you've either got to leave with whatever it is or at least take it out in plain sight, so that whoever did it gets the laugh. There's a good atmosphere about the place just now, Kenny still pure pishing himself, so Robbie reckons it'll go down well if he paps his bag down on the desk and lets everybody see what's been planked on him.

"Fair dos," he says, and unzips the holdall.

There's a big litre-tub of glue sitting right in the middle of it.

For a wee second, Robbie feels like he's the only cunt in the room: just him, the table, the bag, and this big fucking tub of glue. It's probably because of the silence: there isn't a sound, everybody shutting right up apart from one lassie still laughing at what went on before, and who hasn't noticed the glue.

Robbie feels like he needs to hold on to the desk or he might fly off it like a wean on a spiderweb roundabout. His throat is swelling, water welling up. He's going to greet. He can't greet. He wants to turn round and look to see which cunt did this, but let's face it, he knows which cunt did this, and he can't let anybody see his eyes. He's not giving the cunt the pleasure. Doesn't want anybody to talk to him just now, either. Anybody talks, especially if they try to say something sympathetic, he's going to greet, and if he greets, man, if he greets...

Everybody just starts filing out. Noodsy puts a hand on his shoulder. He goes to say something, "C'mon Turbo," or whatever.

Robbie bats his hand away without looking at him. "Don't fuckin touch us," he says, his voice like a whisper because he's too choked to talk properly. "Don't fuckin touch us."

Noodsy steps away. "I'll wait ootside."

Robbie says nothing. He keeps his head down and picks up the glue in both hands, turning his back to carry it to the cabinet as they all leave. Boyd hasn't said anything, give the bastard credit. It's not because he doesn't want a fuss at four on a Friday, either. He knows the score, knows the worst thing he could do is make something of this.

The door closes after the last wean leaves, closing off the sound of everybody blethering. That's the moment he can't hold it in any more. Boyd's still at his desk, but there's quiet, stillness and Robbie's back is to him, which is why it feels like he's alone. He breaks down, greeting near silently, like coughs or big breaths.

Men and Boys Martin makes it on to the carriage during the three-second window between the guard's whistle and the doors sliding closed. There's no ticket office any more, only what used to be the exterior exit stairway affording access to the platforms. Had the office still been open, he wouldn't have made it, but it's safe to assume that would be scant consolation to whatever poor fuckers lost their jobs when the station became unmanned.

He's already dialling Karen's number as the train pulls away. The two-minute dash across the road and up the stairs provides a temporary distraction from what just transpired, the cold of the night and the wind in his face like a bucket of ice-water over his head to wake him up from the warm, smoky fug of the bar. It makes him feel like he's well clear of the place, that he's thoroughly left it-and Jojo-behind, but even as he reaches for the' mobile, he can't help feeling that he is merely vindicating everything she said. He's got some information out of her, so now he can move on. Even if that wasn't his sole intention, it's what has happened, and though he's got a promising lead out of it, he feels something uncomfortably close to guilt about passing it on to Karen.

She answers after a single ring, causing him to trip up on his words.

"Ha...hi. Hello. That was quick."

"My reflexes are amazing when I'm desperate for distraction. My eyes are bleeding from looking through these files. I've got all his accounts and business records in front of me, or at least what we believe to be all. Please talk to me. Preferably at length."

"Anything juicy come up yet?"

"Hardly. His accounts are a shambles, but that's not exactly a red flag when you're talking about a failing business. The only question mark at the moment is a discrepancy over the use of the lodges."

"What, the fact that they were actually making money?"

"Boom boom. No, it's that a lot of the money looks like it's from corporate hire. There's a series of irregular payments in US dollars, account in the name of AmberCorp, but I cannae find any corresponding record of when these bookings took place. All the stays in the ledger have the rates and payments listed next to them, but AmberCorp never appears."

"Could be a third-party booking firm. AmberCorp would appear in the accounts, but individual guests' surnames would appear in the records."

"I suppose. Maybe get someone to look into it, but we're only talking aboot eight grand in total, so it's not got me shouting 'Eureka'."

"I thought cops always said 'Bingo' when they made the vital connection."

"We like to vary it from time to time."

"So those files, the books from Colin's lodges, they list who stayed there and when?"

"Yes. Why, what you got?"

"Did Pete McGeechy ever stay there? Or anyone else on the planning committee? I heard that Colin used to let the lodges to friends at bargain rates, and sometimes gratis to others. The phrase used was 'you scratch my back'."

"Let me find the folder. We spoke to McGeechy this afternoon, and Tom Fisher's sniffing around him and the planning committee."

"What did he say?"

"He said nothing. He talked plenty, but he's an experienced politico. Very good at answering your questions without telling you anything. There was also lots of legal posturing: 'not at liberty to reveal' this and 'strictly confidential' that. Very considered responses throughout. Very frustrating because it's obvious he's lying but you can't get a credit card between the chinks, you know?"

"Aye, but could you not goad him into losin the rag? Never used to take much."

"Like I said, he's a smoother operator these days. Christ, where is that folder?" she moans, the strain in her voice causing him to picture her with the receiver rucked awkwardly under her chin as her hands search the paperwork. "It was right here a minute ago. Let me try this pile. Anyway, he was full of denials about pressure being brought to bear on the planning committee, or rather, he said pressure was always being brought to bear but that was what they were there to evaluate, blah, blah, blah. Cute, too. Didnae claim Johnny Turner had nothin to do with it or say he'd never heard of him or anythin that might come back to bite him on the arse. 'Confidential submissions', 'can neither confirm nor deny the identities of'...You're a lawyer, you know the script."

"Sure. So what was between the lines of the script?"

"Well, obviously he was hiding something, but he didn't seem especially nervous."

"He wouldn't be if the two people who'd been squeezing him from opposite sides had just been eliminated."

"You think Colin was leaning on him? How so?"

"You got the folder yet?"

"Finally, yes. Let me see...Hang on, back over the page...Yes. McGeechy stayed at the lodges back in January. The rate is written down as complimentary. Oh no, wait a sec. January. That predates the submission of Colin's rezoning application."

"It doesn't predate the Sirius consortium's approach for the hotel, though. Colin knew he would need him onside."

"Yeah, but it's not exactly Jonathan Aitken at the Paris Ritz. Plus we'll need to check whether McGeechy declared it anywhere. Even if he didn't, it wouldn't give Colin any means of pushing him. McGeechy would only be vulnerable to accusations of impropriety if he did what Colin wanted, so how does that give Colin any leverage?"

"Maybe that's not the kind of impropriety you should be looking for," Martin suggests.

"Why am I picturing you with your hand up right now?"

"Please, miss, please, miss," he says. It's supposed to sound good-humoured, even flirty, but as he says it he can only think of Jojo. Binary. Jesus Christ.

"You always loved being the one who knows the answer," Karen says, accurately. "But don't milk it, Martin, it's getting late."

So he tells her, without fanfare and without naming his source.

"Where are you?" she asks.

"On a train. I'm a mobile-phone cliche."

"I mean where exactly?"

"Just going past Nether Carnock."

"Get off at Paisley."

"That's what all the Catholic girls say."

"Don't go there, wee man."