He walked hard, leaned into the air ahead of him, but as he neared the bottom of the hill, walking his shadow into the hill’s shadow, he slowed his pace. He had, he realised, no clear idea what he was going to say if he found Jane and Cornelius sitting on the far side. Cries of surprise, hearty handshakes. And then? They would be expecting a story about eyes, operations, a hospital. About Rizzo and Glasgow. Jane might be expecting a story about himself and Emily. Instead, they would hear a tale about some soldier run amok and searching the islands to do God knows what. All too easy to picture the confusion, the exchange of glances. Cornelius would laugh. He would think it was a joke. And even if he managed to persuade them, why should they not simply refuse to go anywhere? They were not old friends. They had between them half a summer. And it was he who this man was after. Lacroix who had called himself Lovall. The dubious stranger. The liar.

Ten strides from the brow of the hill—he had begun to settle on a scheme of saying as little as possible, of leaving the bulk of it to Emily—he noticed an object lying, casually, in the grass a short way to his left. A thing dropped, an object out of its place. He went towards it (already he seemed to know everything), and crouched beside it. It was one of Ranald’s hooks. He touched it, solemnly, as though touching flesh rather than iron. Then he looked up, swiftly, to where the evening sky stood on the hill. His mouth was very dry, his breath in his throat like a feather. He picked up the hook, held it by the leather sheathing. It was the closest thing he had to a weapon. It was the only thing.

He covered the remaining yards at a crouch, his free hand brushing the grass-tips. He wished to Christ he could have more faith in his hearing. At the top he readied himself but when he stood he saw only the cropped blue slope, the empty sea. Ahead of him was the trench he had worked in with Cornelius. Beyond it were two new trenches, one smaller than the other, each with its pile of excavated peat and rubble. He walked down to the old trench and looked inside. It was dark in there, the dusk light already brewed into night, but he could see at the bottom the soft petal of a man’s face, and after staring at it a while not knowing if he should weep or roar or simply run away, he dropped the hook on to the grass and climbed in. He knelt by the man’s head, put a hand against his neck. The skin was warm and he could feel the movement of the blood.

“Ranald! Ranald, man!”

An eye opened, peered up at him.