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I briefly consider whether electrocuting myself might get me out of the task, but upon deciding it probably wouldn’t, I began pulling and unravelling while Mum hummed Mariah Carey on repeat.

Eventually, Dad emerged from the loft, red-faced and triumphant, holding the battered old star that went on top of the tree.

‘Found it,’ he announced proudly.

‘God, so you have.’ I smiled sarcastically. ‘I thought Kelvingrove would’ve taken that as some sort of ancient Gorbals relic by now.’

Mum ignored me and turned on the telly. I watched her type Christmas songs into the YouTube search bar like it was her first day on this earth and she was just discovering how a keyboard worked. Then, sure enough, the music came bouncing out, making me automatically cover my ears.

‘Mum, no!’ I lunged for the remote. ‘I’m so not ready for joy.’

‘But we are!’ she replied, grinning and turning the volume up, shuffling her shoulders from side to side in some sort of sixties dance routine.

I let out the biggest sigh. This was all too much. The truth of my situation was sinking in and I had never felt so trapped.

Trapped with fairy lights.

I was halfway through untangling the wee bastards when we heard a loud knock at the door.

We all froze.

Mum frowned. ‘Are you expecting someone?’

‘Me?’ I said, as if she’d forgotten I was in hiding.

Dad wiped his hands on his jeans and went to answer it. ‘Maybe the Provy Man.’ I stayed exactly where I was, cocooned in fairy lights, hoping that if I didn’t move, I might still technically count as furniture.

The front door opened.

There was a pause.

Then Dad said, ‘All right, son.’

Son? I felt my arse drop. Don’t tell me he’s found me. I dropped the fairy lights in panic. What would I do? What would I say? But part of me felt a small sense of relief, thinking I might be rescued, that he’d come to say how sorry he was and take me home to the high-end Christmas I deserved.

Mum went out into the hallway and stood beside my dad. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

Jesus. That was worse.

I hauled myself to my feet and followed the voices out.

Standing on the doorstep was Train Boy.

Jamie.

Oh, for fuck sake, what did he want?

Chapter Eleven

I glanced once at the smiling ned perched on my mum’s top step, then walked back to the fairy lights, breathing deeply.

‘C’mon in, Jamie,’ Mum said, dragging him inside. ‘It’s baltic.’ She shivered theatrically, then manoeuvred him through the obstacle course of boxes into the living room.

‘Aw, nice! Tree’s gone up?’ Jamie said, taking in the chaos with a brave face.

‘Aye, son. First Christmas with our wee Harri for years,’ Mum said, squeezing my shoulders a little over-excitedly.

I gritted my teeth. I had not agreed to Christmas. But I also wasn’t about to unpack that in front of a man wearing a shellsuit at the age of approximately thirty-five.