I nodded. He darted back inside his shop, and came back with a meat cleaver. 'Just in case,' he said.

He moved past me into the doorway. 'I'll go first, if you don't mind.' He gave me a sample swing of his cleaver. 'I've probably got a bit more practice at this than you have.'

'Be my guest,' I said.

There was only a hall at ground level, then two floors of vacant offices before you got to what the estate agent had called an executive penthouse office suite and most sane people would have called an attic.

We proceeded cautiously; I more cautious than he.

'Anything valuable up there?'

'Laptop and a family bag of Twix.'

'Aye, well, I was right then, better not to phone the police if you have a laptop.'

'I don't follow.'

'Saw what you have on your car; maybe you don't want the cops checkin' out your files.'

'If you're suggesting . . .'

'Each unto their own, mate. Doesn't worry me. I met all sorts inside, so I did.'

'Inside?'

'Oh aye, before I was a butcher on the Lisburn Road, I was one on the Shankill.'

He gave another swish of his cleaver.

'You were a Shankill Butcher?'

'Coulda been, but never had the inclination.'

Just as we reached the top of the stairs, there was a noise from beyond my office door, about twenty paces ahead of us along a short hall.

'I should warn you,' I whispered, 'that I may recently have upset the UVF.'

The butcher looked surprised, but undaunted. 'More power to your elbow,' he said, and gave me a theatrical wink. 'You ready for this?'

I nodded. He gave me a broad smile, before suddenly letting rip with a blood-curdling yell and hurtling forward. The lock on my door was clearly already busted, but he kicked it in anyway and leapt through the gap.

'Gotcha now!' he cried, raising the cleaver, ready and willing to decapitate the teenager sitting in my chair, one good foot propped up on my desk, and the other resting peacefully on the other side of the room.

17.

Bobby Murray was wearing a rumpled and stained white T-shirt, black jeans and one big trainer. He was shaven-headed and acne-faced, tired-eyed and haunted-looking. There was a healthy amount of defiance in there too. He didn't appear fazed at all by the butcher looming over him with a cleaver, and his lack of fear seemed to puzzle my new friend and protector.

'You know him?' the butcher asked, the cleaver still held high and ready for beheading.

'I know of him. What're you doing here, Bobby? And why's your leg over there?'

'Chafing,' said Bobby.

I nodded at the butcher. 'It's okay, I think.' He lowered his weapon, but continued to look suspiciously at the boy. I crossed the room and picked up Bobby's leg, somewhat squeamishly, and set it on my desk. 'Would you mind putting it on?' I asked. 'It's just . . . not right leaving it lying around.'

Bobby made a face, but swung his good leg off the tabletop, pushed his/my chair back a bit and began to fit the leg back into place. All the while the butcher was looking down at him, shaking his head.

I said, 'Well?'

'Well what?' the what pronounced with a silent h and with the impact of a slapped face.

'In case it has escaped your notice, you've broken into my office and busted two locks in the process. What do you want?'

Fully legged up again, Bobby sat upright and pulled himself closer to the desk. He used one finger to push a crumpled piece of card towards me. I peered down at my own name. Bobby sat back and folded his arms. The top of the desk was also littered with Twix wrappers and crumbs.

I picked up the card and said, 'Yes, but what are you doing here?'

'My mum said if there was trouble I should come to you, that if I went to any of my relatives I'd be found and they'd be shot too.'

'So you're not worried about me getting shot?'

Bobby shrugged.

The butcher said, 'Do you want me to turf him out?'

I sighed. I shook my head. 'No, I'll sort it myself. I appreciate the help.'

He nodded. He came forward and put his hand out. 'Name's Joe. I'm only down the stairs if you need anything.'

'Appreciate it.'

Joe gave Bobby a long hard look before turning for the door.

'Nice dress,' said Bobby, nodding at Joe's striped apron.

Joe hesitated for just a moment. He gave me a fleeting glance that included a surreptitious wink. Then he turned suddenly back, swung his arm and buried the cleaver in the desk inches from Bobby's fingers. Bobby let out a yell and threw himself back in the chair, cowering down as the butcher loomed over him.

'What was that, son?'

'Nothin' . . . nothing . . . Jesus!'

Joe let out a short laugh, jacked the cleaver out of the wood and turned back to me.

'Sorry about the desk,' he said, 'I'll send you up some sausages.'

I pushed the door closed behind Joe. It swung open again. The lock was fucked.

I turned back to Bobby and said, 'What happened to your other trainer?'

'I lost it.'

'You can walk on that thing okay?'

'It's not a thing. It's a prosthesis.'

'Is it now? Would you and your prosthesis mind getting out of my chair?'

I pulled out the less comfortable chair I keep for customers and indicated for him to sit in it. He glared at me for what was supposed to be an intimidating five seconds before slowly pulling himself up and limping round.

Satisfied, I sat in my own chair. He watched me as I gathered up the Twix wrappers, balled them and threw a perfect shot into the round file against the far wall. I then swept the crumbs into my palm and opened one of the empty drawers and poured them in. I was working on the theory that if I collected enough crumbs, eventually I could make my own Twix. It's good to have a purpose in life. I switched on the laptop, and as I waited for it to power up, I opened a different drawer and took out a large notebook and a pen and flipped back the cover and wrote Bobby Murray's name down at the top of the first page. I nodded to myself. I sat back. I had no idea what I was doing, but it seemed important to look professional.

Bobby took a squashed packet of Embassy Regal out of his jeans pocket, slipped one into his mouth and then offered the box to me. I shook my head. He patted his pockets, without success.

He said, 'Do you have a light?'

I said, 'Yes.'

When I made no move, he said, 'Can I have it?'

'No. It's a non-smoking office. And you're too young to be smoking. And it's not good for your health.'

He snorted at that.

I smiled too. 'So, Bobby,' I said, 'how're you doing?'

'How do you think I'm doing?'

'You broke into the building, and then my office. That's going to be expensive.'

'I had nowhere else to go.'

'It's not just the locks, it's the door frames.' I cleared my throat. 'I'm sorry your mum got burned to death.' He stared at me. I shrugged. I doodled. The last time I'd spoken to a fourteen-year-old one-to-one I was fourteen myself. 'So, Bobby, what are we going to do with you?'

'I don't know.'

'You mentioned relatives.'

'I told you, they're not-'

'Aunts, uncles . . .?'

'Nah.'

'What about your dad? Could you not go to him?'

'Never met him. He lives in England somewhere.'

'You could go there, safer.'

'I don't want to go to fucking England.'

'Okay, and watch your language.'

'Fuck off.'

'You're coming to me for help, and you're telling me to fuck off? Good thinking.'

'I'm here because my mum said, that's all. Far as I'm concerned, you're just another useless wanker.'

'It seems to be the general opinion,' I said.

'What?'

I shrugged. I doodled some more. In times of stress I draw swastikas. No particular reason, other than the fact that I have no artistic talent and they're easy to draw.

'Well I can check out your dad, if you want.'

'I don't want.'

'Just give me his name and last known whereabouts, I can put out a few feelers . . .'

'You want his name?'

'Yes. Please.'

'Johnny. Two ns. Jay oh aitch . . . en en why . . .'

I wrote it down. 'Johnny . . .?'

'Johnny Cunt Fuck.'

I glanced up. 'Is that with a cee or a kay?'

'Whatever makes you happy.'

I put my pen down. I sat back. 'The police are looking for you.'

'Sure they are.'

'They can protect you.'