They set out the next day, Tony pleased to find himself in a position where he could offer practical help. Luckily for Katrina, she'd got to know him pretty well in the months of living in the Walkers' home. The thought of hours in a confined space with him didn't faze her.

Tony told her they could both take turns on the radio in his Volvo Estate. She could listen to Capital until they got out of London, then he'd re-tune to Radio 4 for an hour or so before letting her pick Radio 1.

"How did the call with Louisa go?" he asked as they pulled out of the Walkers' street and headed north. Katrina hadn't been able to face calling her until this morning.

"Oh, okay. I think she had an 'Ah, that explains it' moment the way I did when I found out. She was more worried about his injuries of course. And I had to tell her a few times he'd had nothing to do with the drug dealing Jordan was doing."

That was Scottish parents for you—they tended to assume their kid was in the wrong. She thought she'd done the job well enough, though.

Tony began to talk about his book-keeping business. As Katrina had guessed, there were plenty of small companies who needed someone who could do the books for them, and who knew the system well enough to work out where they could save a bit of money here and there.

Strictly speaking, Tony was telling them how to work it. But then large big businesses employed tax lawyers, and whole teams of accountants who specialised in advice on how to hide money, hundreds of thousands of pounds worth. What was the odd hundred or thousand here and there?

His new career suited him too, Katrina could tell. He got to breath fresh life into small, struggling organisations and watch them grow as a result of his help. No wonder he was thriving once more. All he needed to do was find another fish and chip shop. He could work the same magic on it, the way he'd done in Kirkcudbright.

"Have you found a fish and chip business?" she asked, her eyes catching his in the mirrors.

His eyes sparkled at that. "Not yet, but there's one in Harrow I reckon could do with a little help. Their mushy peas and onions rings are out of this world. A little work and they could well be..."

She joined in and they both chorused, "the best fish and chips in London!" laughing, as they finished it.

They got to Glasgow in time to catch the last half-hour of the Victoria's afternoon visiting hours. Tony told her he would wait in the car. He wasn't a relative after all.

The hospital was vast and Victorian, its walls and décor sad and tatty, and its staff hurried and harassed. People pushing drips made their way past her to the allocated smoking room, while others pushed in front of her, trying to find relatives in the building's maze of floors and rooms. The whole place smelled depressing—disinfectant overlaid with bad cooking, stew and overdone vegetables. It lingered, miasma-like.

Kippy was still in the Accident & Emergency ward, though Lillian had told her he would be moved the next day as he was no longer seen as a high-risk. Tony had stopped at a small service station and she'd bought a bottle of Lucozade as that was what you gave people who were sick, didn't you?

A&E felt shut off from the rest of the hospital. You went through double doors and suddenly the sound of the rest of the building, and the sirens of ambulances doing their best to cut through Glasgow traffic to deliver the dying and the seriously ill, were muted.

A nurse stood at the station at the front. "Name?" she snapped out, not bothering to look up.

"Katrina Burnett. Ma cousin's in here. Ki – ah mean, Alan Kirkpatrick." It didn't take much for the softer, London-friendly accent to disappear. Puff, up it went in smoke as she stood up to hard-faced receptionists (wo)manning desks where you saw all sorts.

The woman consulted a list on a clipper board, using her pen to run down the names in front of her. The pen stopped and she glanced up, glanced down and back at Katrina again.

"Doon the corridor, fourth room on the left. His ma and pa are in wi' him at the moment. You'll need tae wait here. There's someone else waitin' too."

She pointed at the plastic chairs that lined the wall opposite, most of them occupied. When she'd said someone else was waiting too, a man raised his head to look at her. He waved hesitantly, the gesture of someone connected to the same person in a way neither person knows.

A quick once-over told her he was in his mid-30s, stocky and muscular, his dark, closely cropped hair greying at the temples and beginning to recede slightly. Your classic male pattern baldness and the curse of the hairdresser to always notice such things. His eyes regarded her contemplatively, a certain wariness to them. Someone who guarded his privacy closely then and was at this instant weighing up just what he could share.

She made her way over and sat down gratefully in the scuffed chair next to him. "Hiya, I'm Katrina." If the nurse looked up sharply at that, wondering at the sudden lightness in Scottishness the new visitor had affected, Katrina ignored it.

"I'm Kippy's cousin. I live in London. Have you been in to see him? Is he okay?"

"I haven't seen him," the man shook his head. "I only heard about what had happened today, and of course his mum and dad need to see him."

He seemed to shake himself slightly. "And I'm John. I know Kippy through Lillian."

As explanations went, it wasn't terribly satisfactory, but the man still had a wariness to him and if anyone was used to keeping information to themselves it was Katrina.

A door opened. The two of them turned their heads as Kippy's mother and father emerged, white-faced and clasping each other. Katrina thought she heard John suck his teeth, a reflective influx of breath, as he stood up.

Louisa spotted Katrina and she smiled, teary eyed. She hastened forward, dragging her husband behind her. Kippy's dad—the usually stoic Robert—looked as if he might drop straight to the floor if Louisa disentangled her arm from his.

Katrina sprung forward, taking Louisa's solid forearms in her hands. "Is he okay? He's in the best place, Auntie Loo."

Her mother's sister blinked a couple of times. "Aye, the best place, Katrina. They say he's gonnae be alright. He just needs proper rest and recovery. A shock, though—tae see your wee boy wi' all those drips and machines around him."

"Aye, but they ken what they're talking aboot, those doctors and nurses." God, if that nurse was still listening in, she'd have noticed Katrina was trying out broad Scots once more.

"Is he awake, Uncle Robert?" Really, the best person to ask would have been her aunt, but she sensed she should pull Kippy's dad into the conversation, if only to give him something other than the sight of his beaten-up son to focus on.

"Aye, well, naw... he spoke to us a bit, but went back tae sleep. The nurse said sleep's a big bit of his recovery."

Behind her, Katrina could sense John hanging back. She silently thanked him for it. Yes, her aunt and uncle seemed okay with the new discovery of their son's sexuality, but confronting it here and now was a different thing altogether.

John might not have explained anything at all—friend of Lillian's!—but there was something about the way he had looked down that corridor, and leant forward, fingers digging into knees, when Kippy's parents had come out that told her all she needed to know.

A little more conversation—Louisa and Robert were booked into a B&B nearby, and they'd be back for visiting hours tomorrow, and the day after that, and after that, and as long as it took—and they were gone. Robert needed his tea, Louisa said apologetically. Mebbe they could find somewhere nearby that wasnae too expensive.

Behind her, Katrina heard John stir. He was, she could tell, about to impart his local knowledge and direct them to somewhere cheap and cheerful. Behind her back, she waved an upside-down palm, hoping he understood.

"If you ask the nurse, ah'm sure she'll know somewhere," she said, speaking as loudly as she could. "She's awfy friendly."

They bustled off, Louisa and Bobby, by way of a short conversation with the nurse, who, suitably bummed up, did share with them her knowledge of local cafes and pubs offering fish and chips, pizzas and even mince and tatties. Minutes later, they were gone.

John rose to his feet, shaking off his legs. He must have been there for a while.

Katrina extended a hand. "C'mon. You've earned this."

He took her hand. "You remind me an awful lot of Lillian."

She jerked her hand back at that. "Really? Shit. She's a total, in-your-face, bossy..."

He'd started to laugh as soon as she said 'total'. "Aye, okay then. I'm a total, in-your-face, bossy wee bitch. Ever noticed men never get called bossy, by the way?"

Kippy was asleep then they walked in, long lashes resting delicately on high cheekbones, each freckle standing out against the whiteness of his skin. His hair was slightly longer than usual, and it looked lank and dirty against the crisp, white pillowcase. He had a drip attached, and Katrina noticed there were still traces of paint on his fingers.

The sight of his torso made her swallow hard. There, the whiteness stopped. Every inch of him seemed to be coloured in some way—yellows, purples, blues and even livid red marks. As Lillian had promised, his attackers had stayed away from his face, though the shadows under his eyes talked of pain and fear.

She took his hand, the one not attached to the drip and squeezed it slightly. It felt warm and clammy.

John had echoed her hard swallow. He stood beside her, nearer to Kippy's head. His hand reached out and smoothed its way down Kippy's cheek. Kippy's eyes flickered open, flashing first at John and then Katrina.

"What are you doing here?" It was impossible to tell who the question was directed at. The words were quietly spoken too, their sound croaky—a sentence uttered by someone who hasn't spoken for a few days.

John turned his head to look at Katrina.

"Lillian phoned me. Thought I'd better check if you were okay. Didn't fancy going to your funeral, ken?" She spoke as lightly as she could, careful there was no hint that a funeral could well have taken place.

He looked surprised at her reply, making her realise he hadn't been asking her after all.

She squeezed his hand, kissed her own and patted it on his cheek. "Take care of yourself. And get well soon."

Time for a tactful exit. John shot her a grateful smile and she let herself out as quietly as she could. Behind her, she heard the gentle rumblings of quiet, comforting conversation.