When Malcolm said, “Shall we head to Craigmore?” the next day, Tom thought of Nicky. His brother was very clear to him on some days, much vaguer on others. Tom wasn’t sure whether he missed Nicky more when he was present or when he was absent. Missing someone long dead was a strange thing. There was so much blankness caught up amidst the pain. All he recalled of Beth now was how warm her little body had felt when you lifted her and how she screwed up her face when she smiled, mouth open, in a way that Nicky said (kindly) made her look like a frog. Tom had no idea what sort of person she would have grown into.

“Yeah,” he said to Malcolm. “Craigmore.” He saw seals and black rocks.

They set off around lunchtime, walking side by side without saying much. Craigmore lay in the isolated northern reaches of the island, where there were no houses, only farmland and sheep and uneven, rocky hillside. It took them just over an hour to complete the journey along the road and then along the rough farm track before they were finally up on the cliffs. As they tramped across the grassland by the old abandoned chapel, Malcolm said, gesturing in its direction, “Fourteenth century, don’t they say? Built by the monks of Iona.”

The chapel was squat and roofless: just three ruined walls in ancient grey stone, half decayed and covered in moss and lichen. Tom saw himself crouching within these walls with Nicky, pausing on their journey to the coast to eat their sandwiches. They had loved this place; it felt like theirs.

“And the chief of Clan MacLeod is supposed to have hidden in it once, right?” he said to Malcolm, this information coming back to him unexpectedly. “Escaping capture by the MacDonalds. Afterwards he claimed he was protected by God.” Protected by his own cowardice, more like.

“I’ve heard that,” Malcolm said, “but who knows?”

“There are so many stories about this island,” Tom said. “The clans, the fighting, the ships lost. Do you still tell them to each other in the bar at night?” He could hear the hard edge that had come into his own voice and felt Malcolm’s eyes on him. Tom didn’t look round.

“Sometimes,” Malcolm said. “I suppose people like stories.”

“People like stories about themselves. Especially the people here.”

“Aye, maybe that’s true,” Malcolm said, his voice infuriatingly measured.

His uncle was a hard man to provoke, Tom remembered, not knowing why he himself was suddenly so angry.