"Where is Harry?" Martin asks.

"Dunno. Aw fuck, he's behind you!"

"Whit?"

"Made you look."

"Ya bandit."

With time ticking on, Scot's thoughts turn to the cabaret in store when the teachers arrive. He hopes it's O'Connor. She teaches the Primary Fives, God help them, and is the most torn-faced teacher in the whole school. He really hopes his class never gets her.

But, in fact, they've hit the jackpot, for who comes loping along but Momo himself. He seldom takes in the lines, being too important for that kind of thing, and is most likely on his way from the staff room in the Annexe back to his office. He's not always the quickest on the uptake, but even Momo's radar is sensitive enough to detect something isn't quite normal about the lines. He stops in the double doorway and has a look, immediately rendering the weans quiet, though on this occasion it's as much from bated breath as obedient silence. He goggles the big gap and his big eyebrows rear up against each other like two rutting stags.

Then his nose twitches, and a moment later he looks down.

He can't speak for a second, has a couple of breathless goes at it, then finally manages his immortal words, the most memorable he will ever speak to any wean who ever attended St Lizzie's: "God in heh-van, loowk at thawt." He's pointing down at it, actually pointing down at it with one of his stumpy arms. It's like thon picture Scot's granny brought back from the Cistern Chapel, God giving it the big electric zap. Momo's still thinking of the divine, too. "Mother of Chryyst, Jesus Go-hod."

He stands rooted to the spot for a few seconds, apparently oblivious to the fact that there's now about a hundred weans in danger of peeing themselves laughing out here in the playground.

It's like he's in a world of his own; or a world of just his and the jobbie's, anyway. Then he suddenly shudders from head to foot and breaks the trance, before stomping off out of sight. "Good Go-hod, I ask you, what kind of animaaaa-"

Whump.

That's what they hear. They don't see, but they don't have to. Momo has slipped on more of the jobbie and went his kite. It is a day sent from heaven.

Maybe not so much for poor Harry, Scot reflects a wee bit later. He's heard Harry was found all balled up in the cloakroom area, crying his eyes out, and was sent home shortly after. No, not a good day for him. Nor are there likely to be too many for, well, as far into the future as Scot can possibly envisage. The poor bastard is going to have to pilot a mission to Mars, cure all known diseases and score the winner in the World Cup Final before he's got any chance of being remembered for anything else.

Primary Five Chara Debts Martin can see Noodsy through the wee wire-meshed window into the interview room. Whenever he runs into someone from his childhood days, he's normally struck by their appearing much smaller than he remembers. Teachers, in particular, seemed to have been put through a harsh shrinking mechanism during his university years. Noodsy, however, was someone in that exclusive schooldays echelon of being shorter than Martin, so his stature seems to be pretty much as Martin remembers it. He looks older, though; and not just twenty years older than back then, but like those twenty years aged him more than they aged his beholder. His eyes are glazed and heavy, missing that guile-free twinkle, that boundless, innocent energy. Poor bastard looks like he hasn't slept in days, which is probably about right.

Then the polisman unlocks the door, allowing Martin to walk in, and two decades briefly fall from Noodsy's face. There's a flash, a glimmer of the wee boy Martin once knew, before age and circumstance all but extinguish it again. All but, because there's still something burning in there somewhere.

"Marty!" he says, and, to Martin's shame, tears form in Noodsy's eyes as he speaks. He wipes them away with an embarrassed sniff and extends a hand to shake.

Martin is a little relieved, as he thought for a moment Noodsy was going to hug him. He's not shy of the physical contact; it's the being a two-faced hypocritical cunt part that would have made him uncomfortable. He doesn't deserve this welcome, and nor is there much he imagines being able to do subsequently to earn it.

"You came, man. I don't believe it. Thanks, man. Fuckin amazin. Thanks so much. Brilliant tae see ye."

"You too, Noodsy, though the circumstances aren't exactly..."

"Naw, I know. Near as bad as bein back in O'Connor's class, eh?"

Martin smiles, but it feels inappropriate to laugh, even politely. "You're lookin at a bit more than two of the belt, Noodsy."

Noodsy nods solemnly. "I know. That's how I'm so grateful you've came, man. I want-"

"Noodsy, before we go any further, I've got to put you straight. I'm no a criminal lawyer. I mean, I was for a wee while, but that was ten years ago, so I-"

"Aw, naw, it's awright, man. I've already got a brief. Polis werenae gaunny sit aboot while we waited tae see if you showed up, were they? Didnae even have a number for ye. I got some Legal Aid dude. He's awright, considerin he's aboot twelve. Had worse."

Martin takes a breath, referees a bout between a dozen different reactions to this news, most of them, well, prick-ish. He knew about the other brief, because in order to be allowed to see Noodsy, he had to tell the desk sergeant he had been asked for specifically and was therefore here as a replacement. However, this doesn't sound like he's replacing anybody, not even a Legal Aid dude who looks about twelve.

"I'm sorry," Martin says. "I came up on the first flight soon as I heard..."

"S'awright, man. I didnae ask for ye cause you're a lawyer, Marty."

"So, what...?"

"They've got me for murder, man. Two murders. And I swear on my mother's grave, I had nothin tae dae wi it. I'll put my hand up tae the conspirin tae pervert, but that's aw I did. I just helped get rid ay the bodies. They were baith deid when I got tae the lodge efter Turbo phoned us."

"Scot said you needed somebody who would believe you."

"My brief believes me, Marty. Briefs get paid tae believe ye, whether they believe ye or no. But my brief's no gaunny find oot whit really happened, and neither's the polis. Polis are just like the teachers used tae be. No interested in whit actually happened, just want the quickest solution to gie themsels a quiet life. But the only way I can get oot ay this is if somebody can work oot whit happened in that lodge afore I arrived. That's how I asked for you: you're the brainiest guy I know, Marty. Brainiest guy I ever knew. Much brainier than that Karen Gillespie wan anyway."

Martin nods but says nothing, concealing his emotions. This is even more desperate than Noodsy or Scot thinking he could do some Clarence Darrow act. Flattering, in a tragically naive kind of way, but still desperate, and flailingly so. In his efforts to bum Martin up, Noodsy has misremembered: it was always Helen and Michelle who were his competition in those stakes, not Karen, but then from Noodsy's point of view, half the class must have seemed comparatively brainy.

"I might no be as brainy as you think," Martin tells him. "This isnae like me helpin you wi your homework or somethin."

"Naw. It's mair like me goin up on that roof thon time," Noodsy says, his face now as stony as it is scared. "I helped you that day because I knew I was the only wan that could."

Aye. The bugger didnae misremember that. Martin nods. He takes out his mobile, sets it down on the table and switches it to voice-memo mode. "You need to tell me everything you've told them," he says.

The Laws of the Game (Part One) .

"I've got to tell you a secret," says Paul.

It's lunchtime and they're playing football on the school pitch, carrying on the same game from morning playtime. Colin's team are losing 17-15, but they've caught up four goals from earlier and don't even have Stephen Rennie back from lunch yet (though, saying that, the others don't have Matt Cannon either). The pitch is not as busy as playtime, because a lot of the boys are still in school dinners. Colin takes a packed lunch, which means you get more time to play, because you just sit down and eat it then leave when you're done. If you go to dinners, you have to line up, and if you're not quick out of class you can end up in second sitting, after which there's hardly any time before the bell goes.

Colin loves lunchtime, loves how you can feel like ages have passed since the bell went or before it goes again. If you're playing sodies or Flash Gordon or something, you can really lose yourself in the adventure. These days it's football he likes best, though, and lunchtime is when it feels like you're playing in a proper game, with ebb and flow, not a wee kickabout that's over before it's got going. Colin always goes in goals. That was where he was put when he first started joining in games, because he wasn't very good at kicking the ball. He wasn't much cop at stopping it or catching it either, but nobody seemed to find this sufficient reason to offer to take his place, and so in goals he stayed. But that was when the games were up in the playground, on the concrete. Once you're in Primary Five and above, you get to use the pitch at playtimes. No one is sure whether this is a rule created by the teachers or the pupils, but the reason for it is pretty obvious when you see how mobbed the grass can get, with sometimes three separate games taking place at once. When you're in Primary Four, you don't much fancy getting caught up in that, so there is never any chance of the smaller ones being motivated to contest the restriction.

Today, though, there are only two balls on the pitch, because recently the Primary Fives' and Sixes' games have merged, leaving just the Sevens to a match of their own. Despite there being lots of Primary Sixes in both teams, Colin's position between the posts is no longer dictated by his stature. The bigger boys still demand that he plays in goals, but these days it's because they reckon he's good at it. And that's fine with Colin, because in goals is where he enjoys playing, as long as it's on grass. It's the diving that makes the difference. You can't dive on concrete, which means most of the saves you make in the playground are just a matter of sticking your leg out and letting it rebound off your shin. So, by the time they start playing on the pitch, it doesn't occur to most kids to do anything else when a shot comes in; nor, as it's always the weest and rubbishest ones that get put in goals, is much else expected of them. But one of the first times Colin joined in on the school pitch, Stephen Rennie, the best player in his year, hit this long shot, hard and straight, towards the bottom-right corner, and, having struck it clean, he wheeled away with his arms up to celebrate in front of an imaginary Parkhead Jungle. It was September, the grass was long, the ground was soft, and Colin had been thinking about Gordon Stewart, 'The Safest Hands in Soccer', in Roy of the Rovers. Colin threw himself full length across the goal and got his right hand to the ball, deflecting it round the post.

It was, according to absolutely everybody, the best save they'd ever seen. (Absolutely everybody, that is, except Stephen Rennie, whose disbelief that Colin could have stopped his shot was only overcome because it was his own team-mates who were telling him.) He then cemented his newly acquired status by diving again, this time outwards, to cut out the resulting corner-kick, catching it in both hands as he landed comfortably on his side.

Thereafter, there was no question of him playing outfield, and it was a source of private pride during team-picking disputes to hear the likes of Stephen Rennie argue his opponents couldn't have Matt Cannon on their side if they also had Colin in goals. The greatest compliment, however, is that he usually gets to stay in when it's a penalty. Normally the best players tell the wee guy they've forcibly installed between the sticks to get out and let them take over at such crucial moments, because saving a penalty is even more impressive than scoring one, and they're not passing up the opportunity for such glory. This still occasionally happens, but not when the scoreline is tight, as Colin's ability-or maybe just his preparedness-to dive makes him much harder to beat. Being honest with himself, he knows it's more the latter. Diving saves are the easiest thing about being the goalie. Nobody can hit the ball that hard from much of a distance, not even Stephen or Matt, which makes landing on the grass a less painful prospect than getting in the way of someone leathering it straight at you from two yards in the midst of a goalmouth stramash.

It's quite cold today, early December, and the ground is hard but dry. They tend not to play on the grass if it's wet, because you end up with soaking trousers if you fall down, and that's no joke if it happens at morning playtime and you won't be going home to change until four o'clock. Colin's got his anorak on, with insulated padding, which means he can still dive, though there haven't been many opportunities since the lunchtime break got under way. The balance of play, or, rather, the imbalance of players, has seen most of the action confined to the other end, where the majority of the boys on the park are swarming around the ball. You sometimes see Jamesy or Francis standing on their own, away from the morass, screaming for someone to pass because they're in space. This is usually followed, once possession has been lost with no pass attempted, by equally loud accusations that their team-mate is 'a ball-greedy bastard'.

The only others isolated from this roaming frenzy are Martin, Paul, Robbie and Colin. Martin is not much of a player and has therefore spent his own share of games between the posts (or jackets), but when playing outfield he is one of the very few to assign himself the role of defender. This, as he has confided to Colin, is because he has learnt that with both teams made up almost entirely of strikers, you get more chance of a kick at the ball by hanging back in defence. Another reason for his chosen position is that he and Colin are pals and can have a chat and a laugh during the long periods when play never leaves the opposing penalty box.

Robbie, who is playing for the other side, is here because he is a mooching wee bastard. Mooching is hanging around the other team's goals in the hope that the ball breaks forward away from the pack at the other end, offering the chance of a sneaky shot without first having to negotiate your way through two dozen opponents and as many team-mates trying just as hard to get the ball off you. Robbie is a persistent practitioner of this, despite it earning him almost as much resentment from the guys on his own side as his opponents. It also frequently prompts Matt Cannon to shout 'offside', but as nobody other than Matt knows what this term means, it has no effect on Play.

Paul is on Robbie's side, and though he is also, technically, mooching, this is neither a common tactic for him nor the real reason he's in Colin's goalmouth. He's there to chat, having just returned from school dinners, and will most likely rejoin the action proper later. The three of them have been talking about Lagan's Run on the telly, though Martin has seen the film at the pictures and says it was much better and you even got to see a woman's bare bum. Colin loves telly and films about space. He doesn't want to be a spaceman any more, though, because he's seen the real space rockets in books and they look pure rubbish compared to the ones in stories. Plus they can only go as far as the moon, which is nothing. He's got books about stars and the universe, and he knows the names of all the planets; some of the constellations as well. It's called astronomy. That's what he's going to be when he grows up: an astronomer. He's asked for a space telescope for Christmas, so he can look at the stars every night.

Robbie is a few yards away, nearer the edge of the box, hoping for a punt up the field. Paul has had a wee look to estimate Robbie's distance and earshot before venturing that he has this secret to tell them.

"What is it?" Martin asks.

"You've got tae promise no tae tell emdy, right? Cause it's dead secret and I'm only tellin yous because you're good mates."

"I promise," says Martin.

"Aye, me too," agrees Colin, eager to know what it is, and hoping it's in the same league as Kevin's revelation last week that he'd seen Zoe Lawson's fanny when she stayed the night in his room because their parents were all having a party.

Paul has another wee look towards Robbie, which prompts Colin to check further upfield to confirm the ball is still pinging around the other penalty box. Then he tells them: "I'm really fae another planet."

Colin's first instinct is to look to Martin for a reaction, but Martin doesn't look back; in fact, his eyes are fixed on Paul.

"My whole family. We had tae come here tae hide oot because there's folk after us."

Martin now sends a glance Colin's way, a very serious and concerned look on his face, like he's seen Paul fall over and hurt himself rather than just tell them something really daft. That's Martin, though: he's never a bastard, which is probably why Paul has sought him out for this. Colin's heard similar, knows the deal. They all have. It's like a game, usually, except you're pretending it's not a game, and you never acknowledge that. Jamesy once said he had the power to turn invisible but could use it only when his life was in danger. Colin himself remembers, a little uncomfortably, telling people he had a pilot's licence and could fly a plane if the owners would let him. But this was Primary Three stuff. Okay, maybe Primary Four at the latest, but definitely a pure slagging now, in the wrong hands. Colin and Martin both know this. Colin understands why Paul's chosen them to tell, but still can't believe he's saying it. Besides, they're not playing together: they're in the middle of a game of football.

Paul was off school for a couple of weeks recently. Colin overheard his mum say quietly to his dad that the McKees were getting something called a 'D-Force', which he thought might be a new car until his dad replied that it was 'a shame for the weans'.

"We've all got superpowers back on our home planet, but we cannae use them here in case folk find oot and the baddies come and catch us. The planet's called Star X Z Five. It's dead far away. Further than Spain."

Colin looks forward again to check the proximity of Robbie, but his attention is caught more pressingly by the sight of Richie Ryan hoofing the ball from the edge of the opposing 18-yard box. Richie's got a hard kick on him, and he's caught it a cracker, on the half-volley, causing it to soar high and far towards Colin's penalty area. It lands midway into their half, well ahead of the pursuing stampede, carrying plenty of momentum after the bounce. Robbie runs out to meet it. He makes an arse of trying to kill it with his foot after the second bounce and it ricochets away to the left, just inside the area. Robbie is still nearest as it slows almost to a stop, though Martin has gone out wide to close him down. Behind them, the rest of the mob are charging up the pitch like Viking invaders, leaving only goalie Mick Garvie and Robbie's mooching counterpart Gary Hawkins in the other half of the field. They're still too far back to intervene, though, despite the front-runners shouting on Robbie to 'play it back for the shot, first-time, Robbie, first-time, come on'. Colin would welcome this, because an effort from that range would be just perfect for diving at, but he knows there's no chance. Also shouting, and a far nearer option, is Paul, who would be clear through on Colin if Robbie played, as he is desperately appealing, a 'square baw, Robbie, square baw'. Colin knows there is no chance of this, either. Instead, Robbie goes for glory himself, stepping around the ball so it's on his right foot and giving it a big dirty toe. By this time, however, Martin's right on him and the ball deflects harmlessly off his knee before bouncing out for a shy.

"Ah, ya wee ball-greedy bastard," Paul moans, the sentiment quickly echoed by several of the new arrivals preparing to set up camp in Colin's penalty area.

"Fuck off," Robbie replies, eyeing Paul rather than any of the other complainants; inevitably given that Paul is the smallest of them. More surprising was Paul's own outburst, his anger getting the better of his caution. It's going back a bit now, but Colin has not forgotten how coldly brutal Robbie was in responding to his own moment of challenge.

Colin understands Paul's frustration, however. Paul isn't one of the good players but tries really hard and absolutely loves it when he converts a rare opportunity to score. Okay, strictly speaking, Paul had been mooching when that chance came, but he still put himself in the right spot and Robbie should have played the pass.

Big Richie takes the shy. He's nothing like the first one there or particularly noted for his throwing ability, but his teammates defer to him on the dual grounds that it was his terrific kick that started the move and that he can batter just about anybody else on the pitch. He holds off for a wee minute as he has spotted Matt Cannon returning from the dinner hall and it's wise to wait until their star player has made his way across the pitch. The delay also allows just about everybody else to take position around the touchline and the right-hand side of the penalty area. Only Paul and Dominic distinguish themselves: Paul by moving back to the edge of the 'D' to anticipate a clearance; Dominic a straight marking job on Paul, with the added incentive of a possible head start for a breakaway attack if the ball gets cleared.

Richie throws the ball to Matt, who shimmies, twists and sometimes just shoulders his way past several challenges as he progresses into the box. Colin doesn't like how this is shaping up, as Matt looks like soon being in his preferred striking position for his preferred striking method: less then four yards out for a full-blooded, point-blank blooter which Colin would prefer to go past him rather than off him. Matt skips past another obstacle and draws back his foot, at which point the only dive Colin is considering is out of the way. Instead, however, Martin suddenly lunges between them and gets a boot in the way before the ball has travelled two feet, deflecting it at high speed towards the edge of the area, left of the penalty spot, where Paul and Dominic are hovering. They both react, but Dominic is quicker and gets to the ball first. He misjudges, though, the spin and it comes away from his foot, allowing Paul to nip it off his toes with one touch and go past him. It looks brilliant, like Paul has turned him and left him for dead. Paul glances up, sees he is on his own and gives it an almighty arse-winder from almost the full eighteen yards. He meets it sweetly, hard and true.

Colin can tell from the moment it leaves your foot whether it's a toe, a sclaff, a daisy-cutter, a dipper or whatever, and he knows this is something rarer. Paul has met it perfectly, at pace, right off the laces, and it's flying fast at an unwavering eighteen inches off the deck, straight across him and into his bottom-right corner. However, eighteen inches is the perfect height for diving at, and the ball still has plenty of distance to cover, which is why Colin is already airborne. There's no way he's getting his body behind it-it's too fast and always moving away from him-but with his arms outstretched he is able to get his fingers to it, just as his (thankfully jacket-clad and thus well-padded) shoulder hits the turf. There's too much power behind it, however, and though Colin's hand deflects it up, its momentum is still taking it forwards. He looks up from the deck to see it loop over him and bounce once behind his head before spinning on with more than enough pace to take it over the line.

About an inch before it does so, Robbie steps past Colin and toe-ends it as hard as he can through the goals, then goes running off with his arms in the air making crowd noises, regarded as the just reward of all goalscorers. Colin can't believe it. Even as the ball dropped close to Paul and Dominic, he had heard Martin receive unaccustomed praise for a 'brilliant tackle, well in wee man' upon the normally unstoppable Matt Cannon. Then Paul had pulled off a nice piece of skill and balance to set himself up for a shot from a distance only Matt or Stephen would normally attempt, and justified his audacity by unleashing a peach of an effort. This in turn had brought out a dive of unprecedented scope and bravery on the part of Colin, one they would all no doubt remark upon despite it proving insufficient to prevent Paul's once-in-a-lifetime thunderbolt from finding its well-earned and rightful place in the back of the imaginary net.

And then that wee shite had just nicked in and ruined everything by thieving all the glory.

Robbie, however, is not the only one who's running. Paul is now haring after him with an urgent sense of purpose that Colin suspects has little to do with wishing to congratulate him on a clinical piece of close-range finishing.

"That was ma goal ya fuckin prick," Paul shouts at him, causing Robbie to stop and turn round.

"Naw it wasnae. Colin saved it."

"It was still goin in."

"Was it fuck," Robbie insists, albeit half-heartedly. He turns as though to walk away rather than face down Paul's argument, and he looks far from defiant.

"Aye. It. Fuckin. Was."

Each of these last short bursts of speech is accompanied by Paul booting Robbie up the arse, the fourth kick seeming to lift Robbie clear off the ground, though this is as much a result of his attempted leap out of the way.

"It was Paul's goal," rules Matt Cannon, putting a hand on Paul's shoulder, which seems to assure him of his status and restrain him from sending Robbie on another short-range flight. "Good goal, wee man," he adds. "Cracker ay a shot."

Paul smiles a wee bit but Colin can tell he's still raging. Though he's been awarded the goal, the moment is over. He can't go doing the hands-up run now, and that's the best part. However, Colin believes Paul, in his state of anger, is missing the bigger picture. In the last couple of minutes, something has happened that will have a far greater impact on his standing than merely scoring a stoater of a goal, and this is soon borne out as more and more boys rejoin the game from the dinner hall.

"What's the score?" Colin hears Paddy Beattie ask Anthony Hughes, one of the Primary Sixes.

"I hink it's nineteen-fifteen."

"Eighteen-fifteen," insist a few voices.

"But never mind that," Anthony says. "Paul McKee battered Robbie."

"Paul battered Robbie?" Paddy asks. Pleasure and disbelief are equally measured in his voice, but his volume is not. Robbie is not nearby, but close enough, it would appear, to have heard.

"Aye. Robbie mooched his goal and Paul took a pure eppy and battered him."

"Naw he never," Robbie insists, walking closer to state his case.

"What you talkin aboot?" Anthony laughs. "He booted your arse umpteen times and then Matt jumped in and saved you."

"Saved Paul, mair like. He hardly touched us. I was ignorin him."

"Ignorin him? Is that a new word for shitin yoursel?" Paddy asks.

"Fuck up," Robbie says, the delivery notably lacking his usual viciousness.

"If he never battered you, why don't you claim him, then?" Anthony enquires.

This makes Colin uncomfortable. He doesn't like it when folk try to instigate fights between people, and he fears for Paul if this gets pushed through to a conclusion.

"Nae point," replies Robbie. "He'll shite it. He knows I'll batter him, so he'll no turn up."

"Sounds like you're the wan shitin it," says Paddy.

"Fuck up," says Robbie again, and walks away.

Colin fears for a moment that he is going to head straight for Paul to claim him after school or to settle the matter more immediately, but instead he just wanders away to stand on his own in his favoured mooching zone around the penalty spot. And that's when Colin understands why Robbie won't be claiming Paul now or later, and why he didn't fight back when Paul booted him. He was scared. He was scared then and he's scared now, despite what having been officially battered by Paul will do to their respective reputations.

Robbie stands for a moment, his eyes drawn more to Colin and Martin than to where play is under way, and frequently beyond them to the steady stream of boys making their way to the pitch and playground from the dinner hall. Then he screws up his face in that pinched way of his and begins trotting across the pitch towards the new arrivals. Colin guesses he's intending to start spreading his own version of events before they hear it from anyone else, but he can't see the point. It will only make it worse when they hear the truth.

Careers "There's somebody would like a word, Mr Jackson," says the polisman who is waiting in the corridor outside the interview room.

"Who would that be?"

"The Detective Super in charge of the investigation. Just follow me." He leads Martin along the hall towards the security barrier and the reception lobby. "Just there," he indicates, gesturing towards a tall woman in a dark suit, standing with her back to him as she chats to the desk sergeant. She clocks the other polisman's approach and spins around on one sturdy heel.

It takes Martin a long second to realise that Noodsy mis-remembered nothing. "Detective Superintendent Gillespie," he says, standing as straight and tall as he can. She still seems to tower over him. She's probably got only two or three inches on him, but they made their mark indelibly when these things really mattered.

"Mr Martin Jackson. What a pleasure to see you again, and in such a beautiful suit. Must have cost more than my last car. Of course, they do say there are few more impressive sights than a Scotsman on the make, and you certainly look the part."

"I always liked you in uniform. Shame you're in plain clothes."