When Kane finally saw a flat roof on struts with two pumps beneath it, he felt disproportionate relief. The words Birdie’s Refuelling Station had been painted onto the canopy. Aside from the pumps there were two rusted portacabins and a fire hydrant. No one around. He walked over. The pumps themselves were locked. Kane wondered if being sent here was a joke. Where was the golf course? He turned back to the bomb craters and realized he was looking at it.

Flags had been stuck into the volcanic rock. He walked up to a flag and saw where a hole had been drilled. Someone had smoothed areas of crushed, compacted lava, binding it with what smelled like diesel oil. Sand had been arranged around the edges to demarcate the greens: fragile white outlines, like the ones around the graves at Comfortless Cove. Suddenly a cloud of black dust rose from behind a ridge. Kane heard swearing, and a moment later two men appeared carrying golf clubs, both upwards of fifty. The larger of the two wore a Panama hat. He had a pink face behind a neat white beard, and thick, hairless legs sticking out from his tailored white shorts. The smaller was almost child-size, in a fisherman’s hat too large for him and sunglasses with thick black lenses. They saw Kane and regarded him cautiously at first.

“Have you seen a ball?” the smaller man asked.

“I’m afraid not. I’m looking for Terry.”

“That’s me.”

“My name’s Edward. I was told you might be able to rent me a car.”

The bearded man grinned and clapped his companion on the back.

“A customer, Terry,” he boomed. “Don’t give him any old crap.”

“I’ll give him what I’ve got,” Terry said.

They walked over to the pumping station. The bearded man introduced himself as Derek. There was only one Derek on the island according to Kane’s lists, and that was Dr. Derek Nulty, the doctor who’d pronounced Rory dead. His voice was rich, mannered.

“Come from a base?” he asked.

“No. I’m an academic. Just doing some research.”

“You’re one of the environmentalists,” Terry said.

“More the history side. Human history.”

Terry nodded, still searching for his ball, tapping his club against the pumice like a blind man with a cane.

“Looks like a challenging course,” Kane said.

“Worst golf course in the world,” the doctor said. “It’s famous. Do you play? There’s a tournament coming up.”

“Haven’t played for a while. Willing to give it a go.”

When they got to the station, Terry unlocked a gate and led Kane to a lot at the back. There was only one car in it, under a blue tarpaulin. Terry dragged the tarp off to reveal an ancient-looking white Ford Laser with rust along the joints.

“Does it run?” Kane asked.

“Let’s see.”