'And so? You want me to what, take him in? Some wee shite I don't know from Adam?'

'Yes. He's a lovely lad, once you get to know him.'

'Some wee shite who the police are looking for?'

'The police and the UVF. But really, he's cute, you'll love him.'

'Dan, why on earth would I want to do that?'

'Because he needs help and I'm not equipped to give it.'

'You mean you can't be arsed.'

'No, I tried, really. He's fourteen, for God's sake, he's lost his leg, he's lost his mum, he's scared, he has nowhere to go and no one to turn to. He needs someone to talk to, look after him; you can do that, you're good at that. Poor wee guy.'

She was just securing the final layer of cotton bandage around the burn. She gave it a tight pull. I yanked my hand back.

'Jesus!'

'Jesus nothing! I don't believe you, Dan Starkey. Coming round here, trying to pressure me into taking some . . .'

'I'm not trying to pressure . . .'

'. . . fucking street kid, giving me the whole fucking guilt trip. Typical, you get yourself into something, you come crying to me, sort it out for me, Trish, please, Trish, I can't cope, Trish, just so you can piss off back to whatever the fuck you're doing and leave me to clean up the mess. Well I'm not having it, Dan. All you ever think of is yourself. You don't for one minute think I might have a life? A job? That I don't need this? You don't even consider the fact that it might get me in trouble? That if the fucking cops don't trace him to here then maybe the UVF might, and while they're dealing with him they might just deal with me. Eh? Do you ever think of any of that, Dan?'

'Trish, I-'

'Shut up! I don't want to hear it. Now just go. Go. You need to grow up, Dan. Sort your own problems out, all right?'

I kept my eyes on the counter and nodded. 'You're right. I'm sorry. I will go.' I held up my hand. She'd used so much gauze, and wrapped such a length of linen bandage around it, that my hand had all the dexterity of an oven glove. 'Thanks for this. Really. I appreciate it. Could you, ahm, help me on with . . .?'

I took my jacket off the back of the stool. Trish came round and held it while I manoeuvred one arm into it, then helped to stretch the other cuff wide enough to get my injured hand through.

'Cheers,' I said. 'And sorry.'

I gave her a kiss on the cheek. I walked out into the hall. Trish followed me as far as the kitchen doorway and stood there with her arms folded. I opened the front door and was about to step out when: 'Dan!'

'What . . .?'

'I fucking hate you!'

'Okay.'

'This is the last time, I swear to God it's the last time. Just for a couple of nights, okay? You sort it out, quick as you can, all right?'

'Are you sure?'

'No! Now away and get him before I change my mind.'

'No need,' I said. 'He's in the car.'

Her mouth dropped open. I stepped out on to the driveway before she could say anything.

Bobby was in the passenger seat. He was wearing my sunglasses, the music was booming away, he had the window down and his elbow resting on it, and he had used the car lighter to light his fag. He looked just about as happy as a pig in shite. Which, funnily enough, was exactly the opposite of . . .

I waited until he was in the house, and had grunted a hello at her, to tell Trish that she might need to invest in some clothes for him, and to hide whatever booze she had, and that stealing his leg might be the only way to stop him from venturing out. He didn't hear any of this because he was too busy rifling in her fridge. On the plus side, I assured her that Jack Caramac had paid me before firing me and that I'd be able to fully reimburse her as soon as his cheque hit the bank. She should keep receipts.

For some reason she did not look particularly thrilled.

I drove away, smiling.

But then I looked at my hand, resting on the steering wheel. Not only did it hurt like billy-o, it was a serious masturbation injury.

23.

I drove back out to Malone and parked in my usual position. Six paracetamol and the three mini-bottles of Bladnoch lowland malt I'd half-inched from Patricia's sideboard did little to dull the pain. Actually, that's a lie. It was my sideboard, and my whisky, paid for with hard-earned Dan Starkey cash, with the exception of the whisky, which was a Christmas gift. And the sideboard, which was inherited from Mouse, my old friend who'd been murdered and who'd left it in his will. Like most people who think they're funny, Mouse was not. He'd written his will when there was no immediate prospect of death, and leaving me some furniture was his idea of a cracking wheeze. My point being, however, that I was reduced to stealing my own stuff, from my own house.

I sat with my partial view of Jack's house and ruminated. I could just as easily have ruminated in the more comfortable surroundings of my office or the Bob Shaw, but sometimes it's important just to be somewhere that is relevant to what you're ruminating about. Also, being a journalist is all about waiting for something to happen, and it always helps to be there when it does. I was no longer a journalist, but the principles are roughly the same. As a reporter I had occasionally displayed foolhardy confidence, although never courage. In my new capacity I offer a boutique, bespoke service for important people with difficult problems it still felt like I was unfocused and fumbling around intent on getting answers to questions nobody was actually asking, and all because I had a bee in my bonnet about not being messed around. To which Patricia would say: Get over yourself. She would also say, and did, actually: 'If you worked in advertising and were handling the Birds Eye account, and Birds Eye decided to switch to another agency, you wouldn't camp outside their corporate headquarters because you thought there was something fishy going on. You would go looking for the next client.' There was no need for her to follow it with 'Duh!' Yet she did.

Start the engine, drive away.

My phone rang. I hoped it was Tracey. It was not.

A man said, 'Dan Starkey? Jim Dougan.'

'Hello, Jim Dougan,' I said. 'What can I do for you?'

'It's what can I do for you.'

'That's what I said.'

'No, I said what can I do for you, and you just repeated it.'

'One of us is confused,' I said, 'and it's usually me. So who's Jim Dougan when he's at home?'

'I'm not at home.'

'Please,' I said, 'or we'll be here for ever.'

'I had a message on my desk saying phone Dan Starkey at this number.'

'About what?'

'I have no idea.'

'Oh. Neither have I.'

'Oh.'

We were quiet for several moments. Eventually I filled the space with: 'Turned out nice, after all.'

'Not here,' said Jim. 'It's bucketing.'

His accent was country enough to prompt laughter if he ever attempted a eulogy.

'Where's that?' I asked, prolonging the conversation for no reason other than the fact that there was nothing else happening in my life. 'Ballymena, is it?'

He laughed. 'Way back, sure. Been in Manchester for fifteen years.'

'Really, I don't hear it.' But the penny was dropping. 'If you don't mind me asking, who was the message from?'

'Ahm. Let me see. Uhm, a Catherine Riley? I don't know her either.'

I did. One of my contacts. The penny had dropped into the one-armed bandit, and was now paying out dividends.

'Ah,' I said, 'the clouds are parting. Jim Dougan isn't your real name.'

'Yes it is.'

'Let me rephrase that: it's not the name you were born with.'

He cleared his throat. 'No.'

'James Douglas is your real name.'

There was a long pause, then he said: 'What do you want?'

'You had a baby with Jean Murray fifteen years ago.'

'Oh fuck! Is that what this is? You bastards are always . . . He's nothing to do with me . . . and I don't owe youse a fucking penny!'

He hung up.

Across the road, a lorry had arrived at the entrance to the half-built house beside Jack's. Builders jumped down and began to unload equipment. Another lorry followed behind. Maybe the economy was looking up again.

I phoned Jim Dougan back.

He said, 'Jim Dougan.'

I said, 'Dan Starkey, what can I do for you?'

He said, 'Okay, so you have my number, I can change it.'

I said, 'This probably isn't about what you think it's about.'

'Child Support Agency?'

'No, the Dan Starkey Support Group.'

'The what . . .?'

'I'm a . . . never mind what I am and just give me a minute, this is slightly complicated. You had a child with Jean Murray . . .'

'The cow . . .'

'That is, the late Jean Murray.'

'Late? You mean like . . .?'

'Yep.'

'I didn't know.'

'Killed in a house fire. An unfortunate accident.'

'Oh, Christ.'

'Yes, tragic, but the thing is her son, Bobby. I know you've had nothing to do with him, but you're his father . . .'

'Allegedly.'

'. . . and he has nowhere else to go.'

'That's not my problem.'

'Well, technically it is.'

'Technically it's not. I was never married to Jean Murray. I went out with her for a few months, but I wasn't the only one. She can claim what she wants, but I'm not the father.'

'The CSA has been pursuing-'

'You can stick the CSA up your hole. I'm married now, I have a family now, I don't need this . . .'

'He looks just like you,' I said.

That stopped him for all of about ten seconds. Then: 'You don't know what I look like.'

'Yeah, I know, but he doesn't look like Jean, and she said before her untimely death that he was the spitting image of his dad.'

'Did she?'