‘Are you a stringer?’

‘Not to my knowledge.’ He’s lying, Dougie thought. We’ve all exaggerated a record at some point in our birding life. Hugh seemed as still and white as if he’d been carved from ice.

‘Have you ever been in love?’ That from Ben, who was leaning forward across the table.

‘No!’ The answer swift and contemptuous.

‘Do you hate anyone?’ Fowler’s question was courteous, interested.

Hugh paused for a moment. Dougie thought he wasn’t considering the answer. It was clear he had that immediately. He was wondering whether he should share the information with them.

‘Yes,’ Hugh said at last. ‘I hate my father. I always have.’

He reached out and Dougie thought he was planning to spin the bottle again, though surely it was Fowler’s turn to be the victim and there was no need. Instead Hugh picked up the bottle and set it upright on the floor beside him.

‘That’s enough,’ he said. ‘It’s time to go to bed.’

‘Hey.’ Fowler looked round at them all. ‘What about me? Don’t I get a go?’

‘We’re not interested in you.’ Hugh sounded like a spoilt toddler. ‘We don’t care what you have to say.’

Chapter Fifteen

As soon as it was light Dougie was at Golden Water to check that the swan was still there. He’d left Hugh asleep. The boy’s mobile phone was on the table by the side of his bed, set to silent, but it had vibrated just as Dougie was getting up. Dougie had looked at the caller ID, thinking it might be a birder he knew wanting more information. Dad, the display read. The father Hugh claimed to hate. The father who’d paid for his travels and his smart school and was probably subsidizing his stay in the North Light. Spoiled brat, Dougie thought again.

The clouds were higher, less dense, and the wind wasn’t quite as strong: the water on the pool was ruffled but not as choppy as the previous day. The swan was at the east side of the pond. He saw it immediately and tried to decide what he thought about that. Was he pleased that the waiting birdwatchers still had a chance to see it? Or disappointed? Would the bird be devalued if it was seen by more people? He thought he was pleased. The worst scenario would be for it to fly on to Shetland mainland, where the birders would see it without having to make the pilgrimage to the Isle.

He attached his digital camera to his telescope and took photographs of the swan. The image stabilizers factored out the windshake. These would be good, clear photographs and there’d be a market for them in birding magazines. He’d make enough in fees for another trip to the island. On his way back to the lighthouse he met Ben and Hugh; they were walking south, presumably hoping to see the swan too.

‘Hey,’ Hugh said. ‘You should have woken me up. I’d have come with you.’