Alan Mackie’s is the first house on the road. The cottage smells of paint stripper and sawdust. Lauren trips over a stepladder folded in the hallway as she shuffles into Alan’s beige lounge. Kirsty picks up Lewis, who begins to grumble, his plump fingers reaching towards a screwdriver on the hall table. Lauren takes her place next to Billy, in front of the roaring football with its green glare. Sun-bleached photographs balance on top of the television. They are of Alan and his wife, much younger and stockier, on red bikes in the Aviemore hills. There is a picture of his wife in later years, pallid and close to the end, sitting in a pink dressing gown with a large ginger cat curled on her lap. Billy’s mother sits with Alan now on the same toffee-coloured sofa. It squeaks when she crosses her legs. He mutes the wide television. The smell in this room is sour and musty, like a pub. Lauren hardly visits Alan or notices him around. There is something about him that gives her the creeps, and seeing the inside of his house is rare. Once in a blue moon, Niall will bring her by to pick up a piece of hardware he needs to borrow. He’s comfortable when socializing has a practical purpose. One time they were there, Alan took Lauren through his trophy collection that shines now along the back wall. He stood closer to her than she liked, and she could smell his body odour. He told her he used to be her father’s PE teacher and showed her his awards for shot-put, discus and stone-put at the Highland Games, turning them over in his crêpey, speckled hands. She likes the crystal trophy the best, and second best the trophy with the little gold man holding a tiny gold stone at his neck.

‘So,’ Alan says, ‘what’s your party piece?’

Billy says, all in one breath, ‘Why could the skeleton not go to the dance?’

‘I don’t know,’ Alan says, with a nod. He looks at Kirsty, then back at the children. His teeth are yellow when he grins. ‘Why could the skeleton not go to the dance?’

Billy pauses. ‘Because he had nobody … to go with.’

Alan bursts into a wheeze. ‘Ach, no body, very good, son.’