“We all have our burdens to carry,” Fiona said. She frowned, then added, “It’s true that we were deceived in him.”

“Yes.”

“And it’s true,” she said stiffly, “that there were things that could have been done differently.”

“Yes,” Tom said again. He weighed his words carefully. “But it’s also true that nobody’s responsible except for him.”

As soon as he’d spoken, he wished he could take his words back, because Fiona now seemed on the edge of tears. “Aye,” she said. “That’s right.” But Tom thought there was something strange in her expression.

To comfort her, he said, “I know you were a friend of my mother’s. I’ve been wanting to thank you for that. I’m sure she appreciated it.”

Then he wondered why Fiona looked so stricken as she nodded quickly and hurried away.

Not feeling ready to go back into the shop, Tom wandered down towards the harbour, enjoying the feeling of the drizzle on his face. Through the mist, he could just make out Jura in the distance. He remembered standing here with Nicky when they were children, competing to see who could throw pebbles the furthest. Nicky usually won, but he was always magnanimous if Tom ever did, saying, “Well done, Tommy. Good throw!”

What a kind man he would have grown into, Tom thought.

Carefully, he tried to summon up his mother’s face, calling the old photograph to mind; it was almost all he had of her now. Part of his father’s legacy had been to draw all the attention towards himself, to put himself at the centre of everything. A few years back, Tom had finally looked up the news coverage. He never got beyond the first few paragraphs. Always, the focus had been on his father, on his supposed devotion to his family, his commitment to his community, speculation over his motives and what could have made him “snap”. Tom’s mother had been wiped out, painted over with the different faces that belong to murdered women: the helpless victim, the martyred saint, the wayward wife who somehow deserved it.

But Tom wanted his mother back. He was tired of his father’s company.

Though he was ready to leave the island, he knew that he could keep moving on forever and still never feel safe, never stop fearing men and distrusting himself around women. The old dread was returning, as it always did. There was no getting away from what had happened—not ever. He’d lived most of his life inside a wardrobe and he felt so tired and cramped; he longed for light and space. But again and again he came up against his father’s brutality. What kind of man could you be when that was your inheritance? You could not change if you had learned no alternatives.