Tom is lean. He runs a lot, an awful lot. He has a runner’s body with thick, strong legs and a torso that doesn’t carry much fat. His hair is cropped short. It’s a no fuss haircut that’s also setting himself up for the time when there won’t be that much hair to play with. He’s what a lot of people would call good looking. Not head turning handsome but he has well defined features and warm eyes. He’s smart and pays attention to how he dresses but he’s happiest in a hoodie, good jeans and bright Nike trainers.

Wiping the blood from her finger, Maggie cursed the swine who’d invited the design of the corned beef tin. The blasted wee key that always seemed to tear the tin apart left a razor-sharp edge to the metal. She read that the tins were designed so that soldiers during the war could have their corned beef and use what was left of the tin to keep the rest of it fresh. It was still a novelty having corned beef in Aberdeen. When the typhoid epidemic hit she wasn’t sure if she could ever face it again. It was only when the Queen came to the city earlier that year that Maggie felt safe eating corned beef or indeed shopping in Willie Lows. Corned beef was a staple in their house. Even working two jobs, steak was a luxury that was something of an annual treat. The money in her purse never seemed to go very far nowadays. She’d been shocked to find that a dozen eggs now cost four shillings from Charlie Taylor’s van. He always had a reputation for being a ‘right swick’ but I suppose he could afford to charge a premium considering he called round the scheme twice a day meaning the women who lived here didn’t have to trek miles from the shops every day loaded down with heavy bags of groceries. Moving to this estate had been a joy at first and she was glad to take the council up on their offer of a ground-floor flat with three bedrooms, which meant the boys could have their own room for the first time. Maybe when they built these houses they assumed that every family would be tootling about in the Moris Minor making trips to the shops for the messages. The truth was that not many people around here had a car and those fancy shops they built were two miles away. No wonder vans like Charlie Taylor’s made a packet, especially when they offered tick. Without that, Maggie wasn't sure how many of her neighbours would make it to the end of the week. Maggie sighed and took off her apron. She switched off the radiogram just as ‘Music While You Work’ was ending. Sadly for her, the second half of her working day was just beginning.

It was the afternoon that was going to change everything. The pitch would be the difference between our company surviving and dying. More than that it was a chance to take us into the league with the big boys and if this show took off in the way the head of the channel predicted, then we’d all be looking at a massive payday five years down the line. We were attempting to convince the country’s biggest broadcaster that we had the next ‘Traitors’. We had come up with a nail-biting game show where turncoats and judases attempted to outwit the decent and honourable in order to take home the cash prize. A game of trust. I closed my eyes and took a breath before I started outlining the proposal. As I began to talk about the concept and how we had arrived at it I stumbled over my words as they spilled out of my mouth. It wasn’t like me. I was word-perfect when we’d rehearsed this earlier. ‘Slow down’ I told myself over and over. My armpits felt craggy and wet and my breath got shallow. I was trying hard to keep an even tone to my voice and not squeak like a teenage choirboy whose voice is about to break. Looking around the table I could see nods of approval and some fairly positive body language. I began to relax knowing I was winning them over. I reminded myself that I didn’t have much winning over to do. The ace in my hand was Willie ‘Mitch’ Mitchell, head of commissioning and the man who was possibly my oldest friend. There was nothing dodgy about our relationship and we were definitely not two school pals greasing each others palms. Her was just a buddy willing to lend an ear to what I had to say. Although he hadn’t dared put it in a an email, Mitch had pretty much told me after a few beers how much he loved our proposal and this pitching session really was a formality. We had it in the bag. “ Thanks so much for bringing this to us,” Mitch said when I’d finished. “We’ve had a quick chat and feel this is not right for us. Not really our brand I’m afraid. Hope that’s not too disappointing?” “But..I thought you…er…WOW!” I struggled to get the words out. I looked up and met his gaze. I got nothing. Dead eyes and an experesionless face. He looked like he’d been pumped so full of Botox his face was incapable of showing how he felt. “ Anyway, we should really move on to the next pitch.” The prick was dead to me. I’be been had. He’d made it clear there was nothign else to be said. I felt like we were back at school and in the headmaster’s office. “ You’ve been a disappointment to the school boy, now pack up your things and leave.” I gathered up the cards we had printed up for the game so we could show them how it would work. Right there on top was the first card out of the deck. It was the one that Mitch had dealt me during the mock up game. Framed inside a black border were the words “I’m not a traitor. I was never on your side.”

It began somewhere deep inside her barrell-like chest and emerged stuttering at first- a bit like an old fashioned car in winter that just won’t start. It was a low pitched sound, rasping and croaking that got higher and higher as her enjoyment of the joke grew. By the time the punchline was delivered she was inhaling huge breaths, braying like a donkey and almost choking on her own merriment. Her flushed cheeks were soaked as the tears ran down her face. Soon we were all crying with laughter as she infected us with her joy.

The voices all around me laughing and bawling over the repetitive dull thud from under our feet. It makes me think we are on the floor above a club of the kind I haven’t been in for nearly two decades. The screws on the walls which hold the corrugated metal panels in place are buzzing loudly in time to the music. It’s a harsh tinny sound like an annoying alarm and I long to reach over and switch it off. Someone has daubed paint in neon bright colours all over the walls. It’s too random to be art. The kind of places I spend my Saturdays in have been plumped up and styled to make you feel welcome and cosseted. As the corridor narrows and the music gets louder it makes me feel like this place has been designed to set me on edge. My mouth is dry and I’m sweating. This air raid shelter starts to shake like it’s under attack but it’s just the thud thud thud of the beat. A door opens and the sound of music floods the corridor I feel like we are drowning in it. It’s too loud to speak. Out of the door escapes a wide-eyed, pale shirtless man who puts his face into mine and stares at me. He smiles but his eyes try to warn me. I can smell booze and armpits and the smell of relief as he walks in the opposite direction from me. I realise that whatever he was trying to get away from is waiting to draw me in.

Look into my eyes, you will see what you mean to me I’m not lying, that’s just the other Bryan Expressing his loyalty

I’m tangled in you like a well-tied knot I have faith in your ability, we have a collective responsibility No matter what

I mostly warm to your point of view I hope you’ll give credence, to my pledge of allegiance To always stand by you

I’d never seen a more lavish or appetising feast than the one which lined the entire wall of the ballroom. But I suppose it’s only appetising if you actually have an appetite. There were gasps from around the room and people were just wandering around saying “oh my god” and “wow” over and over again. They looked dazed and overwhelmed by the sight of so much food. We’d asked them to come hungry and although Janice had been bragging to anyone who would listen, I think most people were taken aback by the scale of what we had laid on for them. There was smoked salmon, oysters and langoustines flown in from the west of Scotland that morning and piled high on silver platters. We had hams imported from Spain and truffles from Italy. Young men in white aprons stood to attention over succulent ribs of Argentinian beef. It was a global buffet of the most luxurious foods known to man. A table of excess! I should have been famished. I’d not eaten since morning but as I watched the hordes descend, not only did I not feel hungry, I felt sick. All I could think about was what it was costing. “Money is no object for my only daughter on her wedding day,” I crowed when we started to plan this extravagance. I said this knowing I’d have no way to pay for it. Thirty thousand pounds! For a wedding. I had left myself with no choice. I’d been swept along on a wave of wedding enthusiasm and as the costs mounted I waved them away. I knew I’d make it happen. I also knew I’d get caught. I know that when they go to work today they will realise the money is missing and in a matter of hours they will have traced it to me. I should enjoy my freedom while I can. I should make the most of this - the last meal of a condemned man.

I’m sitting by the window and it’s a wet and uninspiring morning in Glasgow. I have a blanket over my knees, my shoes are off and I have a new book in my hands. I feel the same way I do when I’m in my seat in the auditorium of a theatre minutes before curtain up. Or perhaps it’s like being buckled in and getting ready to take off on a long flight. Other people’s stories give us the chance to find out who we really are, but also the chance to lose ourselves in their world. The best storytellers take you there effortlessly, so you barely know you have left the room. With their bewitching prose and easy descriptions, I’m easily led down that road. Susceptible and ready to be seduced I can leave my world behind in a heartbeat. Two or three pages in and I’m sitting on the steps of 28 Barbary Lane or wating on a table in The Homesick Resturant. When we were locked down - my world opened up. With more time to read I travelled across contintents, book by book. Hardbacks rather than holidays gave me the chance to broaden my horizons. Sometimes their lives and experiences were reassuringly familiar and cosy, other times it’s so removed from my experience that my head hurts from trying to imagine it. But their world is my world now. Most of all, it’s the American storytellers I’m drawn to the most, spending time with Chicago detectives, southern housewives and Manhattan socialites. I am so immersed that sometimes I read aloud without embarrassment. It’s a sonorous, midwestern accent no matter the actual location of the story. And I realise that all American voices are Garrison Keiler’s.

I didn’t realise she was going to tell me something so personal, and now that I had that information I was clueless as to what do to with it.

Four hours earlier…

The red light blinked and I turned the microphone towards her. She was still someone who could turn heads when she walked into a room. Even people who were too young to remember her from the days when Arnage Place was the most-watched soap in Scotland were aware they were in the presence of someone special. Thirty years after her last appearance on TV hers was a star that still shone brightly. Vivienne Whitecroft looked at me with all the focus and intensity that she used to give to the camera. I have to admit to being slightly dazzled. Her hair was implausibly black, her nails bright red and she wore a bright blue suit that matched her eyes. Her scent smelled expensive and I regreted my tatty Converse and jeans. She pulled up the one of the sleeves of her suit and removed the noisy bangle to sit it on the table in front of us - ever the professional. “ Shall we begin?” she purred. “ I suspect you’d like me to tell you if I really was the actress who shagged the bishop and initiated Scotland’s biggest sex scandal of the seventies?” All I could do was nod and pull my chair even closer so I didn’t miss a single soundbite of what she was about to tell me.

It’s almost like a superpower this special gift I’ve found to make myself invisible whenever you’re around

Even a brief acknowledgement make you notice who I am to be part of your inner circle a member of your gang

I always try and catch your eye when I pass you on the stair I wonder if you’d notice If I wasn’t even there.