He had always noticed, for instance, that the boys were unusually quiet around John. They were different, sillier and more childlike, when their father was not around, but in front of John they took on a curious frozen quality, almost as though they were holding their breath. Malcolm had said as much to Heather once, and Heather had replied that John was a strict father, but that wasn’t a bad thing. And anyway, it wasn’t as though he hit them. But Katrina always had her eye on John too, Malcolm thought. Even when she was talking to someone else, her gaze would slip sideways to her husband. It surely wasn’t normal for a woman to be so watchful around her own husband, though Malcolm could never have put this part into words to share with Heather. John watched Katrina too, but his watching had a different quality to it. Malcolm had seen that as well. He had seen enough. The brutal paradox was that the warning only appeared after the event; it was only revealed by the event. The worst needed to happen before Malcolm could make sense of the signs that had been there all along. But a warning that came afterwards was no warning at all.

Malcolm hadn’t even known his brother owned a shotgun. What use did an accountant have for a gun? But John had had it for years, they discovered afterwards, since not long after he moved back to the island. There was a gun cabinet bolted to the wall of John’s study. Malcolm had never seen it, had never been in there until afterwards. He couldn’t imagine why John had gone to the trouble of acquiring the shotgun certificate in the first place, and then the trouble of renewing it. Their father had taught them to shoot years before, out on the croft, but John had never been much good: he could no more hit a tin can than a rabbit. He needed his targets closer, Malcolm thought.

At last, not long after ten, the sound of the door came and a moment later there was Tommy in the hallway, pale and shivering. Malcolm’s relief made him take refuge in practicalities. He heard himself offering Tommy a blanket, offering him cocoa, a hot water bottle. None of this was what he really wanted to say. In any case, Tommy would accept nothing from him.

Early the next morning, Malcolm called up Robert and said he couldn’t come out to work on the farm that day. He wasn’t well, he said, the lie feeling strange in his mouth. Then he made a cup of tea—interminable tea—and sat down once more to wait.

When Tommy finally came into the kitchen, Malcolm said, “Morning. You get some sleep?” and Tommy said, “Yeah,” and went over to put the kettle on.

He didn’t look like he’d got much sleep.

“Feeling O.K.?” Malcolm said.

“Yeah.”