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for what it was. He loved it. He was laughing. Laughing loud. At me.
    As I found my legs and my senses and lost my hard-on, I left the room, left the house, left Clelland Avenue.
    I knew everyone was laughing at me.
    Fucking bitch.
    Fucking dirty bitch.
    I got over it a long time ago though. It’s not the thing, not the reason. I moved on, met someone, got married, had a beautiful daughter. I left Jill Hutchison and that house in Clelland Avenue behind me.
    Some scars never quite heal though and sometimes I remembered. Sometimes I was fifteen again and it stung and I hated Jill Hutchison.
    First love, first hate. Never forget them.
    That was why I was sitting with the Glasgow South phone book and working my way through the Hs. Not looking for her, not that stupid. If you are going to pick a name from the phone book at random then you need somewhere to start. Hutchison was as good a name for my purpose as any. Better than most. She’d be ruled out, so would anyone related to her. Anyone else would have to take their chances with fate.
    There were Hutchesons, Hutchiesons, Hutchinsons, Hutchisons and one solitary Huntchinson. More Hutchisons than anything though – maybe 200 of them on the south side. It would be one of them.
    I paused a moment and considered what I was doing. And what I would do. There was anticipation, fear and excitement. There was an uneasiness crawling deep in my stomach. Uncertainty. Possibilities. Power. An unmistakable feeling that there would be no turning back. Once picked it couldn’t be unpicked. No matter what.
    I realized I was breathing heavily. I could sense the very ends of the hairs on the back of my arms. Maybe this was how a wolf felt before it attacked. The heart sending blood surging to every vessel it needs. It was pounding.
    I closed my eyes and stuck my finger on the page. Simple as.
    Hutchison, Wm. 16 Portland Street, Whiteinch .
    I read his name five times and savoured it, turned it over. Hutchison, Wm. William Hutchison. Billy Hutchison. Bill Hutchison. Willie. Will .
    Poor old William Hutchison, whoever he was, was going to pay an awful price for the behaviour of a fifteen-year-old slut twenty-odd years earlier.
    Fucking bitch.
    Don’t analyse it. It’s too obvious, doesn’t need it. I wanted to hurt her, punish her, make her regret humiliating me. Even though she would never know, this was my way of doing it.
    Fate’s a funny thing. Hutchison , W from Rutherglen and Hutchison, W.G. from Barrhead were a fingernail away from theirs and knew nothing about it. Sitting either side of Hutchison, Wm , they were blissful in their ignorance. Best way for them.
    I couldn’t help wondering who they were. Walter? Wilma? Wendy? Young or old, good or bad? Butcher, baker or mover and shaker? Would they have been difficult or easy, fought or succumbed? Would it have mattered?
    Of course, I knew nothing about the man in Whiteinch either but that would change soon enough. Me and William Hutchison would become acquainted. I’d get to know him pretty well before I killed him. That was the way it had to be.

 
CHAPTER 6
    It turned out Billy was a bookie. An accountant of the turf variety with his own shop on Maryhill Road, one of the handful of independents left in the city. Places like his relied on regulars. Offering slightly better prices than the big high street guys to keep the punters coming back. He’d know them all by name, know whose wife not to talk to, know whose secrets to keep, know who’d be good for credit and who wouldn’t.
    He’d be a bit shady, bound to be, but legit enough. There would be a good few bets never chalked up for the taxman. He’d maybe be paying a bit of insurance to keep his shop from going up in flames, protection money to ensure a safe trip to the bank with a bag of takings.
    Billy the bookie was in his late fifties, a cheery, grey-haired man of about five foot six with steel glasses, a belly and a purple face. His stomach, face and nose told me he liked