26
The last time Scott had seen Barry Walpole, the two of them had almost come to blows over the death of Ken Potter. Barry had been full of anger then, ready to defend his late friend’s dubious honour. He’d been a formidable creature that day, all piercing eyes, bulging veins and flared nostrils. Not now, though. Today Barry was a shadow of his former self. He was quiet and subdued, timid almost. Scott didn’t even notice him there until he almost tripped over him on the way back from the bizarrely heavily guarded toilets. ‘Strange how they’ve got armed guards round the toilets, isn’t it?’ Barry said. His voice was drained of all its former energy. He was sitting cross-legged on a mat, holding a frail-looking old woman’s hand, his other arm around her shoulder, his size dwarfing hers. He
