Nathan or Clint started. Nathan or Clint shoved Nathan or Clint. 'Shut the-'

The dad slapped them both again. 'You have the Hexbox?' They both avoided his eyes. 'Right. Go and fuckin' get it.' They looked at each other. The dad barked: 'Now!'

Nathan and Clint bolted up the stairs.

I stood for a long minute with the dad. Eventually I said, 'Terrible thing,' and nodded across at Jean Murray's house.

The dad grunted. 'Never knew when to shut her bake.'

I nodded. 'Still.'

'You know, I worked in the shipyard for thirty years.'

'Really?'

'Got laid off. He didn't.' He nodded across the road. 'Not for another three years.'

His brother was in his front room, staring across.

'Close, are you?'

Before he could respond, the boys arrived back downstairs. Nathan or Clint had the Xbox in his arms. He thrust it into my hands. 'Here,' he barked. 'Satisfied?'

The Xbox was squat and black and scratched; the twin ventilation strips were smudged and clogged with dust. The other boy pushed two controllers against my chest. They both turned and stomped back up the stairs.

'You're lucky he doesn't haul your arses down the station!' the dad yelled after them.

I thanked him for his cooperation and said it was unlikely that we would be taking any further action, but he should consider my visit an official warning. He grunted. He closed the door. I was halfway back to my car when I heard a shout: 'Hey, pedo!'

Clint and Nathan were at an open window, upstairs.

'He knows his name!' said Clint or Nathan, and they both cackled.

I turned back to the car.

'Enjoy the Xbox,' shouted Clint or Nathan. 'It doesn't work anyway, you sad fucking wanker!'

I put the Xbox in the back seat and climbed in. I drove away to a chorus of Clint and Nathan singing: 'FUCK THE POLICE! FUCK THE POLICE!'

27.

I dropped the Xbox off at my usual repair shop on Botanic Avenue, and the old fella asked if I'd checked the plug, with the weariness of someone who'd dealt with me before. I lied yes and he told me to come back in an hour.

So with time to kill and Colenso Parade only up the road a bit, I drove there and found a parking spot handy for keeping an eye on Nanny the nanny's house. I'd bought a packet of crisps in the Bob Shaw, but with one hand the size of a small cushion, they were impossible to open. I was still trying to work it out when Nanny and Blondie emerged, climbed into their silver dream machine and drove off. A few minutes later, I sauntered down the alley behind the parade, counting off the houses. They all had back yards guarded by above-head-height walls. There were doors in the brickwork, but they'd been there for sixty or seventy years and there wasn't much evidence of them having enjoyed the benefit of maintenance work. The locks were rusty, the hinges loose. When I came to Nanny's, I didn't have to do much more than lean on their green door before the lock gave way. I slipped inside and closed it behind me. I stood there and listened for a wee while, before negotiating my way through an overgrown and rubbish-strewn yard to the back door. It was in better nick than the yard door, but instead of being solid, it was made up of twelve small smoked-glass panels in a wooden frame. I took my bandaged hand and punched the panel closest to the handle. It cracked well enough for me to prise the glass out in two pieces. I then reached through and unlocked the door from the inside. I opened it and entered the kitchen.

I felt quite proud of myself. The way my luck ran, I could easily have opened a vein breaking the glass and bled to death on the back doorstep. There was a pleasant buzz of adrenalin. When I was a reporter, I wouldn't have dreamed of breaking into someone's house. But now that I was whatever I was, I was beholden to no one. It felt like exactly the right thing to do. I wasn't a burglar. I was a champion of justice, which was, I'm sure, exactly how the police would look at it if they found me.

It was a two-up, two-down and sparsely furnished. There was cat food set out in a bowl in the kitchen. There was a flat-screen TV on the wall in the living room. There was a telephone stand in the hall with a small pile of mail. Most of the letters were bills addressed to Betty Spense. That would be Blondie. There was one letter addressed to a Marija Gruevski, with an unfamiliar foreign stamp. It had already been opened, so I took out three neatly hand-written pages in a language I did not recognise. I pocketed one bill, and the letter. Upstairs there was one bedroom packed to the hilt with cardboard boxes stuffed with nothing but old clothes and knick-knacks. The second had a large double bed and just about enough room for a small locker on either side of it. On the left one there was a framed photograph showing Marija with two girls of roughly similar age, smiling against a snowy background. There was nothing much of interest in her drawer. In Betty's locker there were tights, nighties and a vibrator. I took the battery out, and put the vibrator back in the drawer.

I turned at the sound of a car door slamming. If the windows had been double-glazed I wouldn't have heard it. I moved to the bedroom window and saw Betty approaching from about four cars up. I nipped smartly downstairs. I set the battery from the vibrator upright in the middle of the kitchen table. It would sow a confusion that would probably not be resolved until she tried to pleasure herself.

As the front door opened, I slipped out the back. I pulled the yard door closed behind me and returned to my car. I sat there for a while. When Blondie or Betty didn't immediately burst out on to the street screaming that she had been burgled, I started the engine and drove back to Botanic and parked. I still had ten minutes until the hour was up, so I took out Marija's letter, picked a word out of the address in the top corner and typed it into Google on my phone. It was a town in Macedonia. I knew nothing about Macedonia, but nine minutes later I knew a lot more, although it was from Wikipedia, so it might have been cack.

The owner of the repair shop claimed to be a master of all trades. He not only did Xboxes, he did vacuum cleaners too. And refrigerators, and electric heaters, and televisions, and computers, and alarm systems, and he could rig up a satellite system that would give you all the benefits of Sky without having to pay for Sky. I, who could not wire a plug, admired him immensely. I had used him on and off over the years. He knew me as Dan, I knew him as Bill. He had once had a brother called Ben. Together they and their shop were known as Bill and Ben, the Repair Men. According to legend, Ben had been electrocuted by an electric guitar he was repairing. Ben, apparently, was not a master of all trades.

As I entered, a bell sounded above the door. Bill was behind the counter, repairing a portable typewriter. He looked up. There was no familiar smile.

'Haven't seen one of those in a while,' I said. He grunted. I followed it up with: 'So, Bill, how's the patient, could she be saved?'

He responded by moving out from behind the counter. He came past me, closed the door and locked it. He turned the Open sign to Closed. He moved back behind the counter. He shifted the typewriter to one side and fixed me with a look.

'That bad, is it?'

He said, 'How many years have I known you?'

'Many,' I said.

'Have I ever cheated you?'

'No, of course not.'

'Have I been anything but courteous?'

'No. Bill . . .?'

'Yet you bring this shit in to me?'

I cleared my throat. 'I know the Xbox is overrated, but . . .'

'No,' he said simply, and reached down and lifted up what appeared to be Bobby's console. He set it down and nodded down at it. 'This is your Xbox?'

'Yes. No, in fact. I'm getting it fixed for a wee lad I know. Has he completely destroyed it?'

Bill thought for a moment, before nodding to himself. 'Dan,' he said, 'I know you've had troubles, but you seem to be a decent enough, straight-up guy. I also know you haven't the technical know-how to physically take the top off this Xbox without fatally damaging either it or yourself.'

'Sad but true,' I said.

'And that is the only reason I haven't gone to the police.'

'The . . .'

'If it had been anyone else, I'm telling you, I'd have had them here in a flash. You want to know why your Xbox doesn't work? You think maybe this has something to do with it?'

I moved closer and peered down as Bill removed the top. I expected to see the inner workings. I did not. Inside, the electronics had been removed and replaced with a small handgun, a thick wad of cash and a see-through plastic bag containing a very large amount of white powder.

28.

I was through the front door almost before Patricia had opened it. And before she could say anything, I was spitting out: 'Where the fuck is fucking Peg Leg?'

'Dan . . . Jesus . . . what's got into you?'

She followed me down the hall. When he wasn't in the kitchen, I went into the lounge. When he wasn't in the lounge, I went into the living room.

'Where is he?'

I went to leave the living room, heading upstairs. Trish stood in the doorway.

'Dan. Settle down.'

'Don't tell me to . . . The little fucking-'

'Dan.'

I had the Xbox in my arms. I blew air out of my cheeks. I sucked it back in again. In, out, in, out.

'Right,' I said. 'Sorry. Where is he?'

'Upstairs.'

'Call him down. Please.'

'Not until you tell me what-'

'Trish. It's fine. Honestly. All will be revealed.'

'It's not fine if you're going to smack him.'

'He's fourteen, I'm not going to smack him. I'm going to punch his head off. Please. Just get him.'

She raised an eyebrow. I raised one back.

'Sure?'

'Sure.'

She turned for the stairs. I retreated back across into the living room and set the Xbox on the coffee table. I heard her calling him. I paced. A couple of minutes later he came into the room. He had on an old pair of my football shorts and a twenty-year-old Liverpool top. His eyes immediately went to the Xbox. Patricia leant against the door frame, arms folded.

'Got your Xbox,' I said. He grunted. He moved towards it. I said, 'Why don't you plug it in, we can have a game.'

'There's a TV in my room.'

'I'll come up there, then.'

He screwed his eyes up. 'Yeah, right. I just want to play by myself.'

'Hey, son, you're here as our guest; the least you could do is have a game. Our wee family. Go on, plug it in. I got you a game. A new one. Thought you'd appreciate it. Grand Theft Auto Remember 1690. It's a special Belfast edition. Come on, plug it in, Bobby. Plug it in.'

He stood where he was.

'Dan . . .?'

'PLUG IT IN!'

'Fuck off!' Bobby exploded. He spun on his one heel and would have fled if Patricia hadn't blocked his path. 'Get out of my fuckin' way,' he growled. His fingers bunched into fists. His head jutted forward, right up against Patricia's. 'GET OUT OF MY FUCKIN' WAY!'

He didn't know Trish. She could have made the defenders of Stalingrad look flaky. She remained resolutely in position, even as he grabbed her blouse and tried to drag her out of the way. That lasted for all of one second; then I had him by the throat. I dragged him backwards and threw him down. He landed in a heap. I stood over him.

'You ever put a hand on her again, and I'll fucking kill you. Do you hear me?' He said nothing. I crouched down. I took a hold of his hair and pulled his head up. 'Do you fucking hear me?'

Still nothing.

Patricia knelt beside me. 'Dan . . .' she said softly. 'Dan . . .'

She took hold of my hand and eased it off his hair one finger at a time. I was shaking. She got the last finger free and he slumped back to the floor.

I stood up. 'You ungrateful little shit,' I spat.

'Dan . . . Dan . . . it's okay. We all just need to calm down.'

'We need to get our fucking heads examined, taking him in, looking after . . .'

She put a calming hand on my chest, and I breathed in, out, in, out, against it.

It eased.

'Good,' said Trish. 'Now what's this all about?'

I stepped up to the coffee table. I removed the top of the Xbox. 'This is what it's about.'

Patricia moved up beside me. She looked down. She looked at me. We both turned to look at the boy.

He said, 'If you touch me again, I'm calling ChildLine.'