THE trouble started in Nations Square. A corner-prophet had climbed the plinth of Blue’s statue and was haranguing a small crowd. He was a gaunt man with sunken eyes and a straggling beard. He wore a tattered suit that had once been mauve but was now a dark brown with dirt and wear. Sandals covered his bare feet, and his speech was interrupted by bouts of violent coughing. He was about sixty years old and should have had better sense than to stand thinly clad in the open at the beginning of winter. He was also wasting his time.
Sam Falkirk eased his weight from one foot to the other as he stood at the edge of the crowd and listened to the thin, strident voice of the corner-prophet. It was the usual tirade; a plea for the Blues to be allowed civil rights and representation, an attack again
