The garish tartan carpet is stained and gives the Black Horse a certain smell. All year round the windows stay shut. A light-up Santa stands on a shelf behind the bar. It is always there. Scots proverbs hang in teak frames against the bare drystone wall. Phrases like Lang May Yer Lum Reek and Haste Ye Back, by the entrance, written in swishing calligraphy.

‘Hi, Hamish,’ says Niall to the landlord as he takes a seat at the bar.

‘Niall,’ says Hamish. ‘What’re you havin’?’

‘Niall!’ Diane pulls herself up from the bar fridge and leans across. She is only paid to collect glasses but has been known to pull a pint. Hamish sometimes jokes that she is trying to grow up too fast. Diane says it’s because she needs money fast.

‘How’s yourself?’ she asks him.

‘Usual! How’s tricks?’ He looks over at Hamish. ‘Just a Tennent’s.’

Niall takes himself to a cushioned corner of the platformed seating area and sips his lager. He wipes the foam from his mouth with a frayed sleeve. The skin over his knuckles is cracked and the backs of his hands are veiny. He is an old thirty-five, with prematurely grey hair. He wonders how much older he is than Diane and if she is still in school.

‘How’s your mother keeping?’ he asks her as he plods back up to Hamish for another pint.

‘You finished that off quickly,’ says Diane and he grins, in a way he hopes is charming. Can he be charming? Does Catriona ever think he’s charming?

Diane notices him looking at her and cocks her head. ‘I saw your daughter the other day, when I was at Ann-Marie’s. She’s such a wee character.’

Niall is caught off guard. ‘Ho, well, you can say that again, aye.’ He coughs. ‘More of the same, please,’ he says, hoisting himself up on a leatherette stool. Hamish pours the drink in silence. The fruit machine flashes electric treasure in the corner.

‘Quiet in here, eh?’ he says and drains half his pint. Hamish looks up from a newspaper that is spread out on the countertop and nods.

‘Good day?’ It is another man at the bar, whom Niall now realizes is Alan Mackie, wearing a forest-green jumper and tweedy trousers. He stays staring at his drink as he speaks.

‘I’ve had better. How’s yourself? I didn’t see you there,’ Niall says. He squints at the ‘Dear Deirdre’ column Hamish is reading.

‘Had better days, have you? Have a whisky with me,’ says Alan. ‘On me.’ He lifts up his little water jug. ‘Two more, aye. The man needs it. Doubles.’

‘No, I couldn’t …’

Alan replies with a wheezy chuckle. ‘Aye, you can. Here’ – he directs his voice to Hamish – ‘who’s playing this Friday?’

‘Sandy Ross and his pals.’

‘I could do without hearing his name for a while,’ Niall mutters.