Jodie’s eyes flew open. Mungo had never noticed it before, but now he could see the violence of Hamish in her face. Her eyes could fade to the same black and grey of Ayrshire flint, and her jaw locked in the way Hamish’s did when he was going to punch something, hard.

It felt like when he sat by himself in the darkness and Jodie turned on the big light, the bare bulb with no lampshade, and it burned his skull.

his arms wide, like a saint waiting for ascension.

Underneath the waterproof sheet the ground had been pulsing from the pouring rain. Tiny rivers of water tried to find their way past the tent and around the boy to lower ground.

perfect white sand beaches and crystal-clear water all year round. White sand, pure white, like sugar.

St Christopher reached for the whisky like a child demanding a bottle, his feeble fingers grasping the air.

Mo-Maw’s eyes were glassy, the whites were steeped in redness as though she had been too long in the local pool.

There were two flats on every landing and each half-landing had a stained-glass window, a simple diamond pattern that let in light from the back green and cast a subdued olive and indigo down the stone stairway.

Jodie gave him one of those looks that tired women give to stupid boys;