Mary woke to the opening credits of season six, episode five, and smiled. She was lucky. Her partner loved Sex and the City. She stretched, and found she was frowning.

Hey babe, she messaged Roddie. Out of ten, how much do you love Sex and the City?

No reply, and she had to get to work.

Home visits were a good way to start a hangover day. Most of Mary’s guys would still be asleep at nine-thirty, and kind of sober, and if her incessant knocking managed to rouse them it’d only be for a minute, as they’d be desperate to take whatever to get through the morning. Jimmy McKinley’s 1979 and 2017 crimes were the only things worse than his person. It took him a few minutes to Zimmer to the door and, like last week’s shorts, Jimmy’s Y-fronts failed to cover him. Mary shielded her eyes – ‘Go and put your trousers on!’ – uncovering them when she heard the bedroom door close, then using the seconds to snoop about. The living room was a shrine to Jimmy’s wife, who’d had a stroke the day of his arrest for ‘historical incest’ – a term that angered Mary. The only incest that wasn’t historical was happening right now, and that was historical now too. After they arrested Jimmy, they looked at his PC and he was also done for ‘child pornography’. Don’t even get Mary started on the term ‘child pornography’.

When Mary decided to get her diploma, she believed it would be her role to stand on bridges and stop people jumping off. Very soon after qualifying she realised she would never stand on bridges. She and everyone else were too busy catching casualties downstream. Except for sex offenders. If you saw a drowning sex offender being swept with the current you threw a large rock at him. Mary had done her best work in her first five years in the job. Those early cases were the ones she could recall, where she’d made the time and had an impact. She should have been forced to resign at the five-year mark. Every worker should.

Jimmy spent most of his life in an armchair surrounded by photos of Hilda, who looked like a burst couch, in Mary’s opinion, but Jimmy thought she was wonderful now she was dead, and he cried if you mentioned her name. It’s not like Jimmy could’ve done any better than Huge Hilda: what with his skin condition and relentless child-abusing. A wedding photo balanced precariously on a small table beside his armchair, in case the guilt skipped Jimmy’s mind for a moment. He was still in his bedroom, so Mary checked his mobile and TV history, yelling through to let him know that’s what she was doing. Every week another complex task was added to her job description, the latest being that she had to check the devices of her sex offenders. If she found anything dodgy, or if they’d deleted their search history, she would need to respond in a manner befitting a sudden increase in risk. But in a technology battle against an internet sex offender, Mary knew she’d have no chance of being remotely competent. She couldn’t even figure out how to use voicemail on her work-issue Blackberry.

Jimmy and his Zimmer came back into the lounge, wearing the shorts that hadn’t hidden his bits last visit. Mary swiped and tapped and nodded and pressed as if she had a BSc in computer science and a masters in the dark-or-deep net-or-web. With a raised brow, she focused on the first line of Jimmy’s only recent Yahoo email, then on the last line, then on the first again, deducing with confidence and out loud that Jimmy should take a meter reading, for npower, by Friday if possible.

To regain power, Mary looked round the room for another device. She didn’t even need a warrant, fucker. She spotted a black plastic box with holes and shit in it beneath the radiator. ‘Pass me that please, Jimmy.’

Apparently, it was a blow heater. ‘These are expensive, are they not? You should get a combi boiler system. There are grants, I think.’

Jimmy nodded as if to say: Indeed, I am guilty of tossing my PIP money to the wind. Then he put the non-device extravagance back in its creepy little place beneath the radiator.

‘I’m putting on tea. Would you like a cup?’

‘No, thank you.’ Mary returned to the relatively safe ground of phone swiping. Jimmy had Googled the opening hours of the local library, she thought, but couldn’t be sure, and had possibly bought the latest John Grisham on Amazon. She put the phone down and moved from virtual devices to visible vices. The same ugly ornaments lined the mantle and bookshelves; the carpet still needed a hoover; the windows and curtains were still closed; the box of tissues beside the armchair was almost empty (and he didn’t have a cold); the sideboard door was open. Nothing suspicious enough, nothing changed enough. Acute risk score this week: low.

Mary relaxed. She’d be out of here in a few minutes. She found herself straightening the wedding picture on the telly and shutting the sideboard door – but something was stuck.

She tried to jam it, and then shuddered when she saw what looked like skin. Mary opened the door and screamed. There was a baby in the sideboard.

She moved a shaky finger towards the child’s arm, which was cold, and weird. And rubber. Mary screamed again, this time with relief. Jimmy’s worst case scenario was not happening here today. This was a rubber doll, not a human.

‘Jim!’

Cuppa in one hand, the other on his Zimmer frame, Jimmy stopped short in the hall.

‘You have an anatomically correct female infant sex doll?’ Mary was holding it by the hair. There was no good way to hold it. She put it on the armchair and found herself pulling its antique lace christening dress down over the legs.

‘Not a doll; a robot.’ Jimmy didn’t seem overly concerned that his sex toy had been discovered, or at least he made a good effort not to seem so. He pressed the baby’s back and an arm moved up then down again. ‘See!’ He pressed again, and a little tear dropped from the robot’s (not doll’s) eye.

It was 9.45 a.m. Mary had a MAPPA at 10.00; no time to do all the things she’d now needed to do as a result of – ‘Her name’s Emily,’ Jimmy said – as a result of Emily. First, she’d have to listen to and note Jimmy’s highly logical explanation, and later record it on council and police databases – both of which required passwords and codes and secret keys and fobs and time – a lot of time – that she would not have this afternoon. Her diary, as usual, was angry-full.

Mary took notes as Jimmy explained his right to be with Emily:

‘It’s way worse than creepy, Jimmy. Where did you get it?’

‘Online. I had her on order for months. Please don’t take her.’

Mary swiped at his phone again. ‘You know you’re not allowed to delete anything?’

‘I didn’t. A mate ordered her for me.’

‘What mate?’

Jimmy didn’t answer.

‘Not someone from the group?’ It was one of Mary’s fears – that the groupwork her team delivered was most successful in offering the guys a cosy networking environment.

‘No.’

‘When did you get her … it?’

‘Three days ago.’

‘And how many times have you used the doll for sex in the last three days?’

‘We’ve spent a lot of time together. I’m so happy, Mary, for the first time since Hilda died.’

Before he’d finished speaking, Mary dialled the Offender Management Unit. ‘Hi Minnie, I’m at Jim McKinley’s, and I’ve found a female child robot in his lounge cupboard.’ Mary covered the handset because Minnie’s response was less than professional. ‘Yeah … yep, about five months I guess … Yes, she’s called Emily … I know it’s not illegal, but there are, like, parts – It’s anatomically correct … Yes, that is what I mean. I want you to see this. Can you or someone pop over? I’ll get Jim to stay put but I have to go.’

Before getting in her car, Mary checked her work-issue Blackberry. There were three calls from an unknown number, three emails from business support with messages from Macdowall, a missed call from Dr Shearer (who was he?) and one from Fiona Bellwood. There was also a reminder that she had two court reports due at twelve and a MAPPA at ten. It was 9.53 a.m.

The office was buzzing with Wednesday-ness. Wednesday was the most efficient day of the social worker’s week. Most would’ve tried not to drink Monday and/or Tuesday, and some may have managed. A fair amount of television and sleep was likely to have happened in recent days. Sometimes on Wednesdays an occasional chuckle happened, giving off a whiff of hope that almost masked the regular office smells of off-milk and the sewage place across the way.

Forty or so child-protection workers sat in the pods they were assigned to in the hanger-like space, faces tight and strokes imminent. From what Mary heard as she passed by, Nel was on page twenty of a report recommending that Derek McLaverty should not have any access to his boys if he failed to attend one more session, and/or if any further domestic offending occurred; Daljeep was getting ready to go out on an investigation with Gemma; and Lisa was on the phone, suggesting Carol take her head out of the oven because it was electric and would not have the desired effect.

Please let me get through today without killing a child, they’d all be thinking, as Mary had thought for the last thirty years. Please help me not ruin a child’s life. She’d prayed each day that she’d get through it without fucking up, without turning out to be the bad guy after all. No-one in the office was expecting fame, riches, or even thanks, even though each worker would have made an excellent protagonist in It’s a Wonderful Life. They all saved lives, all the time, but no-one ever noticed. Boy did people notice when it went wrong, though. Mary had witnessed at least five of her colleagues do the walk of shame on the same route she was walking now, from one end of this stinky shed to the other, heads low because they had caused a death according to the Renfield Star and the Renfield Star would know. One, Sharon, had to do the walk of shame for seven weeks before fleeing to Spain, where she relaxed just enough to get cancer. Look at Sharon, they all thought as she walked the walk those weeks. Take a good look, and never, ever, take the mother’s word for it.

There were wonderful moments. Like when eighteen-year-old Vanessa turned up to the office a month ago. Mary had been her social worker from when she was nine months old to when she found a new family at seven. Vanessa had wanted Mary to know that she was now going to college, that she was happy. She showed Mary photos of her boyfriend, a few of her childhood after she was adopted, and one of a box filled with sunglasses.

‘These are the ones I gave you?’

When Mary first met Vanessa, she was malnourished and living with her heroin-using mum. Mary had sunglasses on, and the nine-month baby took them off her with glee, chewed at them, and did not want to give them back. Mary let Vanny keep the glasses, which were expensive – Raybans actually – and then wore one three-pound pair each week for the following year.

Those were the moments that made it worthwhile. Looking back, though, Mary was just glad the kid hadn’t choked on the wee pins that hold those glasses together. The job was more fun when she knew nothing – like skiing.

Mary reached the other end of the room, where fourteen criminal-justice workers typed court reports and breach reports, updated risk assessments and popped downstairs every hour to check in a service user. ‘Service user’! Mary referred to her guys as her guys, and they were all guys. The women were now supervised in a holistic and separatist manner in a different building. Mary found it easier to work with men, but had never been tempted to analyse why. In fact, she wouldn’t work with the women, even if you paid her forty K a year.

‘Big night last night?’ Lil was on her second coffee.

‘That obvious?’

‘You’ve put on weight.’

‘I know, right? Nine stone fourteen,’ said Mary.

‘You mean ten stone?’ Lil had said a bad word.

‘It’s the wine. I had three very large glasses at home last night. On my own.’

‘Aw, that’s so sad.’

‘Sad? Are you kidding? Can’t believe I’ve spent all these years getting drunk with other people.’

Lil donned her American movie-trailer voice: ‘One alcoholic parole officer. Four weeks to go. One last client. What could possibly go wrong?’

‘Mary! MARY!’

Fuck, it was the green-haired student social worker, her voice coming from behind. Mary must not look back. See what happens when she forgot to put on her headphones? She must walk with purpose; she must pretend to be deaf; she must get out the door, across the landing, into the meeting room.

Phew.

Serious folk from serious places sat around a serious desk each month to share the kind of information that should’ve been shared about Ian Huntley before he murdered two little girls in Soham. Mary could see the girls’ innocent faces clearly still; like Vanny’s sunglasses, they kept her going. This serious gathering was called the Multi Agency Public Protection Authority, or MAPPA to people with ADS (Acronym Dependency Syndrome). Mary was able to answer fifty percent of the questions posed about her racist prick lifer guy, Simon Gallacher, who’d murdered an Asian kid when he was an angry white kid, which was just before he turned into an angry white man. Gallacher’s criminal record listed a violent offence every five years, most of them racially aggravated. Mary hated his guts and left the meeting with fourteen actions to be completed ASAP. For example:

  1. What was the name of Simon Gallacher’s Pakistani neighbour, and did the neighbour have a wife or a job or business or relatives or girlfriend or children or car or pets or any contact whatsoever with the nominal*?
    (*nominal = evil bastard)
  2. Was the Pakistani’s* family known***?
    (*Pakistani = potentially from Pakistan or a place like that)
    (***known = fucked)
  3. Simon Gallacher had commented on Derek McLaverty’s Cuck Facebook page. Did they know each other? Had they attended protests or events together?

Mary had thought mostly about noodles throughout the MAPPA. She would get them in Shawlands before making an unscheduled visit to Macdowall, before whatever awfulness she had diarised from 12.30 on.

She stopped at a red light. Time to glance at the diary – there were coded appointments for 12.30 and 1.00 and 1.30 and 2.00 and 2.30 and maybe even 2.45. Her diary was hard to read now with all the changes and additions she’d made, some in eyeliner. 3.00 and 3.15 and 3.45 and 4.50 and 6.00. Fucking 6.00? She was supposed to do ‘domestic-abuse modules’ with William McInnes from 6.00 until 7.00 at night, because the fucker worked, had a job, and she wasn’t allowed to discourage that, no matter how inconvenient for her, nor how little it reduced the likelihood of him fracturing his wife’s skull.

That’s right, Mary had set aside an optimistic and forward-thinking thirty minutes to write two court reports from 12.30 to 1.00, both of which were due at 12.00.

Noodles.

Macdowall didn’t answer, so Mary palm-pressed the buzzers for all eight flats until someone let her in. She managed to finish most of the noodles before she reached the landing. Before knocking, Mary peeked through the letterbox (no obvious sign of life in the hall) and snooped through the rubbish bag at the door, which was filled with empty beer and wine bottles. When there was no answer, she checked under the mat, and then under the small pot plant. The key was there. She knocked more loudly and was about to give up when Holly answered the door.

‘Is that…?’ Mary sniffed at the smoke-filled hall. ‘Jesus Holly, now I’m stoned too. Where’s your father? You stayed here overnight?’ Mary barged her way in, and Holly was too wasted to stop her.

‘I didn’t stay here. I came this morning to help him prepare. He has an event at the Edinburgh Book Festival at two. He’s not here. So, can you go? Oi!’

Mary was scanning the living room: two empty wine bottles, six empty beer cans, at least a dozen joint roaches and a purse, which she peeked inside. The driver’s licence belonged to a basic blonde called Fiona Bellwood. Derek McLaverty’s HQ was thriving, by the looks. Thousands of posters and flyers added to the t-shirts and books piled on the floor. He’d left his silver MacBook on the dining table. The kitchen had obviously fallen victim to late-night munchies. Mary’s prying was determined. She opened the door to the spare bedroom without asking. ‘Is Derek staying here?’ A photograph of the sons he allegedly loved but never bothered showing up for was on the bedside table. Hanging over a chair was his white t-shirt: THIS IS WHAT A MRA LOOKS LIKE. Mary peeked inside the large box on the floor. Inside were the original letters Macdowall wrote to his dead wife.

‘Hey, get out,’ Holly said.

‘Have you seen these?’ Underneath the fifty original handwritten letters that had been published was a large A4 envelope with CUT written on it. There were around a dozen letters inside the envelope, all of which had been scored through with red pen. ‘Some didn’t make it into the book, I see. Have you read them?’

Holly grabbed the letters from Mary and followed her as she stormed into the hall. ‘You have no respect. How dare you touch other people’s things. Do you realise how hard you’re making it for my dad? Get out. You are driving him to despair. Do not go in there.’

Too late, Mary had opened the bathroom door, where her son, Jack, was brushing his teeth.

‘Hi Mum.’

‘Jack? What…?’ She stared in disbelief. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’

‘I could ask you the same.’

‘I’m required to visit, by law. How did this happen?’

‘Holly and I got friendly.’

‘She friended you?’

‘We had a drink after the book launch, got chatting on the Cuck page, met up at another event.’

‘You stay away from my son.’ Mary faced the girl.

‘You’re invading my personal space,’ said Holly.

Mary realised her nose was almost touching Holly’s and that she was breaking every rule she’d learned on the four-day conflict resolution course she did in 1983. She called on one of the skills she kind-of-remembered and turned her voice and tone down several notches, which in Mary’s opinion made her sound even more aggressive. ‘You hear me? You stay away from my son.’

‘Mum!’ Jack said. ‘Leave her alone. Why are you like blaming it all on her.’

Mary turned to Jack. ‘Are you really listening to this Cuck bullshit? I could tell you a thing or two about that McLaverty; you should beware.’

‘Could you, Mary?’ Holly said. ‘Or would you be breaching confidentiality again?’

Mary ignored her. ‘Are you gonna wear one of these t-shirts, Jack?’ She was holding the garment with great anger. ‘Okay, then, put it on.’

Jack took the t-shirt from her and put it on the basin. ‘If you want to know, this bullshit is making me think about things. Like the way you talk to Dad. The way you talk about his work. He is so talented, he’s worked so hard for so many years to get where he is, and you call him a colour-in-er-er.’

She was getting hot, but this might not be due to menopause. ‘You think I’m abusive?’

Jack took too long to answer. ‘All I’m saying is that Liam is worth listening to. That’s what I’m doing. Maybe you should try it.’

He’d been brainwashed already. ‘Never, ever go near my boy again,’ she said to Holly, before making her way to the door.

The traffic lights were against her all the way. Right now, she was stuck behind a black Range Rover, which was also indicating right. Their blinkers were in sync – tick, tick, tick, tick, tick – and Mary found herself tapping to the rhythm on the steering wheel.

Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.

Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.

‘Hey there Roddie boy.’ She tapped a finger per syllable. ‘Am I a-bu-sive? Am I the arsehole?’

She had called him a colour-in-er-er, after all.

She had made comments about his appearance.

And she had hit him.

The lights changed, and she was relieved when the tick, tick, ticking stopped.

Had hit him! Pffft. A girly lash-out, maybe, a desperate chest-pounding during a desperate time, like when Mary wanted to take over the childcare thing but couldn’t because Roddie despised law, and would have hated taking over the money-earning thing. She stopped at the side of the road to get her breath back, but unfortunately could hear what Jack might say, which is exactly what she would say to a client: ‘You do realise a girly lash-out is a punch, right? That a chest-pounding is assault?’

Yeah but – size matters, she told herself, and so does fear. Roddie has never been scared.

‘Yeah, but.’ She sighed – she had heard men say this so many times.

Yeah, but there was no time for this. She had a dangerous criminal to breach.