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reputation. There were good people living there alongside the scrotes. Veitch, when I knew him, fell into the latter category. Mason and myself had pulled him for a badger baiting escapade up the Carrick Hills. We were both wild in those days, knew a prosecution was a long-shot, so we gave him a hiding he would never forget. As I stood outside his front door, I hoped his memory was intact.
    ' Hello, Veitchy. '
    ' What the …' He eyed me up and down, seemed to be coming out of a stoner ' s stupor.
    I pushed passed him into the hallway.
    ' Hey, hey … what ' s this all about? '
    I surveyed the premises, found the place empty. In the living room an ashtray overflowed with cigarette dowps, and Rizzla papers. A fat block of Moroccan sat by a packet of Regal Kingsize. I picked it up.
    ' What ' s this? '
    He girned, ' A wee bit of puff … you still polis, eh? '
    ' I ' ll ask the questions, Veitchy. '
    He shook his head; his craggy jaw turned a chin of white bristles towards me. He had aged since we ' d last met. I couldn ' t believe how he ' d aged. ' Well this isnae a social call, ' he bleated.
    ' Got that right. '
    His eyes followed the block of cannabis resin in my hand. I played with it, toss and catch. ' Although … I did see a glimpse of a friend of yours the other day, got me thinking. '
    ' A friend ay mine? Who? '
    I pocketed the resin. ' Jonny Gilmour. '
    Veitch ' s face creased; deep furrowed lines appeared round the corners of his mouth. His cheeks looked more hollowed now, his brow more furrowed. It was a look of stupefaction, at least that ' s what he wanted me to believe; I went with a wiser assessment of Rabbie ' s: suspicion is a heavy armour and with its weight it impedes more than it protects.
    ' Haven ' t seen him in a month ay Sundays, ' Veitch protested.
    I smiled, ' That right? '
    ' Sure ay it. Couldn ' t tell you the last time I saw him, must have been when Adam was a boy …'
    I didn ' t rate his reaction, didn ' t seem genuine to me. I said, ' You haven ' t changed house in twenty years, Veitchy. Am I supposed to believe you ' ve changed your muckers? '
    ' Look, I don ' t hang about with Jonny Gilmour. I ' m telling you that straight. ' His tone was hard, certain. I didn ' t believe a word of it.
    ' I think you protest too much, Veitchy. '
    ' Eh? What ' s that supposed to mean? Some kind ay riddle or that? '
    I turned towards him, closed down the two paces between us and planted a firm index finger in his bony chest. ' There must be something up with your memory, son … Don ' t you remember my aversion to lying scrotes? '
    He withdrew his head. ' Well, I might have seen him in the passing, now and again like, at the snooker and that. '
    ' That ' s better. Carry on. '
    Veitch rubbed at the stubble on his chin. ' But he ' s not exactly what you ' d call a mate these days …'
    I dipped my head, towards his face. It was enough.
    ' Well, look what do you want to know? '
    ' Everything, Veitchy. Everything …'

Chapter 8
     

    My mother was just coming round as I dropped the holdall on the living room floor. The noise the bag made was louder than I had intended; the normal reaction for someone waking from sleep would have been a flinch but she didn ' t stir. A moment or two passed and then suddenly a dim flicker of recognition entered her eyes.
    ' You ' re back, ' she said.
    I didn ' t know what she meant: back from my walk? Back from Ulster? There was no way of telling what stage of addled she was in. I made a long stare towards the bottle of port, registered grim disapproval on my face, said, ' So, how long have you been hitting the bottle like this? '
    Headshakes. ' Oh, spare me …' She sat upright, leaned forward balancing her elbows on her knees. My mother started to gouge at her eyeballs with her knuckles.
    ' Well? ' I dropped in enough intonation to let my feelings sing.
    ' Don ' t start on me, son. ' The word son was a starter for ten, designed to put me in my place, designed to let me know she had