Page 91 of Hang on St. Christopher

“I understand what you mean, Sean. I’m not an idiot.”

“I never said you were.”

“No, but you’ve thought it many times.”

I looked at him. “That’s a terrible thing to say.”

“Tell me I’m a liar.”

“You’re a liar.”

He gave me a hard stare for fifteen seconds, then lifted up the evidence bag. “Special Branch will have to be informed immediately. Do you want a lift back to the house?”

“I’m not walking.”

“I’ll give you a lift home, then.”

“You’ll report this to Special Branch?” I asked.

“Of course. It would be dereliction of duty not to. These people have to be informed that they’ve been potentially targeted.”

Crabbie drove me back to Coronation Road.

Cold shoulder the whole way.

“Thanks, mate. Hopefully, our betters will sort this one out, eh?”

Crabbie said nothing.

I made to close the Land Rover door, and he gave his head the slightest of shakes.

“Wait a minute, Sean,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“You got very, very lucky when you met Beth.”

“I know.”

“She’s a good woman. A handsome woman. Good natured. And a good mother to your daughter.”

“I know.”

“And a teacher too.”

“Yes.”

“Saved your wee bairn when they came to kill you that night. Took her in her arms and fled like a good ’un.”

“I know. What’s your point?”

“You really couldn’t have gotten any luckier than that, Sean.”

He’d worn me down, and my eyes fell from him and stared at the oil and cigarette butts in the gutter.

“Nothing really happened, Crabbie. Not really. It could have... but...”

“See that it stays that way,” he said, and leaning over, he closed the Land Rover door with a bang so loud that it startled half the mutts on Coronation Road.

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