‘So that’s me done for the day,’ he says. He wonders what she likes to drink. He wishes he could ask.

She takes a couple of seconds to register what he has said and how close he is standing. Her body stiffens. ‘Thanks very much, Niall, I appreciate it.’ The knife scrapes against the spine of the fish as she separates it into two halves.

He steps back and props his hand on the edge of the marble-effect countertop that he fitted a few months ago.

‘Mind those fish guts,’ she says.

He looks at the golden hoop through her ear, then at his boots on the tiled floor and the good grouting he has done. Her brown feet look so delicate next to his. ‘Any plans this evening then?’ He can’t quite leave this beautiful room.

‘Yeah, actually.’ She looks down and makes another cut into the side of the second fish. ‘Yeah.’ She glances at the black window. ‘I think you know him maybe,’ she says, turning over the second fish and positioning her knife just under its fin. ‘Sandy Ross?’

‘Oh aye,’ Niall says. Oh aye. ‘How d’you know him?’

‘Well, we got chatting at a folk music night when I first moved here. He asked me to come to the ceilidh the other night. I didn’t even want to try and dance, I didn’t really know many people, apart from those who visit the surgery. So I just watched him and … and you, of course.’ This last part is only a politeness. ‘That was after he took me to the lochans the other weekend and showed me, you know, how to catch these. Pretty nice of him. I just stuck them in the freezer.’ She cuts deep behind the brain of the fish. ‘Maybe that’s how I caught the cold.’

‘Maybe,’ Niall says. The bastard.

‘So, you know, he’s actually going to pop round and try one of these, he said.’ Her voice trails off.

‘Right, uh-huh,’ Niall says. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then.’ He can feel his heart beating in his chest. He needs to get out.

‘See you, Niall,’ she says absently.

‘Go easy on the bevvy,’ he mutters as he leaves, but she doesn’t hear him.

He plans to go home, but finds himself taking the turning for Strath Horne instead. Leaving his tool kit in the pickup, he walks, dazed, into the Black Horse Inn.

The back door is locked. Lauren rattles the handle several times, but she can’t get back into her house. Her dad never mentioned he would be out this evening. He never usually is on a Sunday, even though he still often works, keeping odd hours. She takes out her single spare key on its puffin keyring and jams it into the lock.