‘It’s not like that,’ she said.

‘What is it like, then?’ asked Kath, her face hard.

‘It’s . . . ’

She went round to Ravi’s after school. They got the bus out of Ayrness together, sitting side by side at the back. Unlike her, Ravi seemed completely at ease. ‘Here, listen to this,’ he said, and gave Zoe one of his earphones. ‘She’s Irish, Lisa O’Neill, it’s a song about a man who murdered women, being murdered himself.’ They listened to the silky deep of her voice – ‘Along the North Strand’ – the song’s ancient thrill. ‘Maybe you could sing it at one of the gatherings on Cwen.’

‘I haven’t been to any gatherings on Cwen,’ Zoe said. ‘What happens at them?’

‘I haven’t been either,’ said Ravi. ‘You’ll have to ask S&T. They go.’

‘What do they get up to?’ This close she could smell him; sunshine and salt, Cwen’s smell; the thrill of walking over that wild island.

‘It’s a secret,’ Ravi said. ‘I think they give each other support. Discuss things.’

The sun was setting and the ancient cairn, protected and cut off by the sea, was illuminated by the secret meaning it had guarded for so long; that tangible piece of human magic. Ravi took a picture of Zoe in profile looking out at Cwen, and sent it to her. Zoe felt shyer and more pleased than ever.

They got down at the bay, and Ravi led her along the coastal path to his family’s plot. It was two caravans stuck together, with a huge oak tree overhead whose branches tapped against the fogged-up windows. He said, ‘My mother’s making chard-dolma again. I hope you like it. She grows the chard herself. She’s got a space in the Ayrness allotment. She gathers all kinds of wild food too, sea beet and mussels and seaweed. Round here, they think she’s a witch.’

Ravi’s mother smiled at them when they came in. She’d tied her hair up in a flowered headscarf while doing the cooking. Who’s your friend, Raymond? she asked him in Turkish. From Green Club, said Ravi. He showed Zoe where to leave her shoes. They sat side by side again in the cooking fug of his caravan kitchen, facing the big window with its steamed-up view out over the sea. We’re working on the details of the camping trip, Ravi told his mum. His father came in, still in his fish-farm overalls, nodded to the kids, and went straight into the bathroom to shower off the fish stink. We’re trying to work out how to recruit more young men, Ravi went on. In English, he added, ‘We need a strategy. They want us to be educated into the kind of boys they want to be friends with.’

His mother said, Raymond, how old is she?

Almost sixteen, Ravi said.