Jodie and Mo-Maw did something strange then. They turned not to Mungo but to Hamish. In pure instinct, they looked to Hamish because he would know what to do. He was the man of the house. Their eyes seemed to implore, Handle it, Hamish.
The first detective kicked the ground like he had lost a bet. It was not the brother he had thought it would be. Hamish was certainly the shorter of the two, but this boy was slightly too old to fit the description. But the mouth of the balding detective pulled tight in a knowing grimace. As soon as he had clocked Hamish, he had thought him capable of violence.
Hamish stepped forward almost immediately. He didn’t blink, he barely nodded. “I am. I am Mungo.”
Gallus eejit. The officers would not play daft for long.
It could be the last time he ever saw James. Mungo knew it now. He turned because he wanted to look on him for as long as he possibly could, to remember the smile that made everything better, the mouth full of happy gappy teeth. He wanted to see if his cheeks had turned their usual bluish-pinkish tartan in fresh air.
James’s broken hand was raised in a frozen greeting. In his many coats he again resembled the statue of St Mungo at Kelvingrove, reaching out, welcoming followers.
James was biting his split lip. The rushing traffic blew his tawny hair over his eyes, the wheat and the barley, the sticky pulled sugar of it caught and ate the last of the sinking sun.
The broken hand swivelled then. He turned his bandaged knuckles towards Mungo and the splinted fingers that had caressed the soft down at the bottom of his spine twitched faintly, discreetly. The swaddling made the gesture crude, inarticulate, but Mungo understood.
He beckoned him only once. Once was enough.
Come, it said. Come away.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I am so grateful to my family, the gallus Glaswegians that I was blessed with, and the wonderful friends that are lumped with me. I wouldn’t be here without you.
I am indebted to my editor, Peter Blackstock, and to the Grove Atlantic team: Morgan Entrekin, Judy Hottensen, Deb Seager, John Mark Boling, and Emily Burns. Thank you to my fellow ugly duckling (his words) Ravi Mirchandani, and to Camilla Elworthy, Jeremy Trevathan, Stu Wilson, Gillian McKay, and the talented folk at Picador. Love and thanks to Anna Stein, Claire Nozieres, and Lucy Luck for taking such good care of Mungo, and to Grace Robinson, Julie Flanagan, and Will Watkins for all their support. Thank you to Mungo’s friends from o’er yonder, Cathrine Bakke Bolin, Daniel Sandstr?m, Susanne Van Leeuwen, Lina Muzur, and Valentine Gay.
I survive on the encouragement of my early readers, so many beers are owed to Patricia McNulty, Clive Smith, Valentina Castellani, Margaret Ann MacLeod, Tanya Carey, and Tina Pohlman for the loan of their hearts and minds.
Thank you, above all, to Michael Cary, who has always believed.