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business on them. Shug found himself nodding, ushered out of the house by Len. And when he glanced back at Fiona, she was crying.
     

5
     
    Four years, three months, six days ago.
    A post office in Bathgate, one big cluttered front window, a cash machine set into the wall. Outside, there was an advert for Walls ice creams and a stolen Punto with the engine running. Inside the Punto were Shug, Len and Golly. Golly sat in the driver’s seat, tapping along to the slow beat of the Sam and Dave song on the radio. Len was in the back seat. Shug watched him sweat in the rear view mirror, then turned back to the post office. “Just remember your mark and you’ll be fine, alright?”
    “Aye,” said Len.
    “Follow my lead.”
    “I fuckin’ ken, alright?”
    “Alright.”
    Shug got out of the Punto, slammed the door behind him. He walked across the road to the post office, the weight under his jacket knocking against his ribs. He patted the pocket with the ski mask in it, just to make sure it was still there, then pushed into the post office.
    Sweets and cigarettes on his left, magazines and newspapers on his right. At the back, a long, windowed post office counter, about three or four foot deep.
    An Asian couple ran the place. He was small, thin and bald, wore milk bottle glasses. She was round and hidden under vast swathes of material. Her eyes were sunk so dark she looked as if she was wearing glasses too. Or at least looked as if she needed them, the way she peered at Shug as he entered. He went to the till, bought a pack of Lamberts and a Lion bar. When her back was turned, he glanced across at the post office part. The man worked behind the glass, counting something and talking quietly to his customer. He smiled, but then he had one of those faces that always looked as if it was smiling, his teeth too big for his mouth.
    Shug paid for the cigarettes and chocolate. He turned from the woman, wandered over to the magazine rack as he waited for the customer to finish off. He moved down the rack, looking without touching at the fishing, motoring, handicraft magazines. When the customer at the post office was done and moving towards the exit, Shug looked out the front window to see Len getting out of the Punto.
    Lad had timing.
    When Len shut the door, Golly flinched.
    Shug felt for the ski mask in his pocket, brought it out as the bell above the front door rang and Len entered. There was a school of thought that said there was no point going in there and then pulling on the mask, but that school of thought reckoned on people remembering anything other than the gun pointed right at them. Shug pulled the wool over his face and turned back to the woman. Len made a beeline for the post office, his mask already on.
    The woman saw Len, let out a screech. Shug showed her the double-barrel. She saw nothing but a fallen eight and the screech cut short.
    Len had his pistol drawn and pointed at the man behind the counter. He barked orders, told him to open the fucking door else he’d put all six through the fucking glass. Shug knew he wouldn’t. Fact of the matter was, both the shotgun and the pistol were empty. It was the difference between a short hitch and a life sentence if it all went pear-shaped. And Shug didn’t trust himself not to unload into the first cunt that gave him grief. Didn’t trust a high-strung lad like Len to keep his head, either. Too much of the cowboy about him.
    The bloke behind the counter started shouting back, freaking like a trapped squirrel, made himself a moving target. Swearing at Len. Calling him names in two different languages. Shug shouted once at the man, then struck the woman hard across the bridge of the nose with the short butt of the sawn-off. She buckled and dropped. She grabbed sweets on the way, brought Twirls and Kit Kats down on top of her. Shug shifted round the counter in time to see her eyes flicker closed.
    Silence from the bloke. Shug could hear Len breathing hard behind his mask.