They walk back down the looping path, banked by snow-laden ferns, towards Clavanmore. She likes Billy walking beside her like this, in his Aberdeen beanie. He’s like a big brother, but with a better face and hair. Lauren rolls the silver ring between her index finger and thumb, in her pocket. Darkness seeps into the forest and the white snow fades to a dark grey, then darker still, until the world is black.

15

Niall wipes away the grouting and stands back. ‘That’s me done for today,’ he calls. Catriona hasn’t heard him, but everything has seemed back to normal since she was ill. She must have forgiven him. He reaches into his coat and takes a sip from a rectangular flask.

He walks out through the darkened corridor, over tiles he has laid himself, to the kitchen, where he can smell cooking. It is a nice house and he likes being part of it. He pads through the open door and sees Catriona standing at the countertop in black leggings and an oversized shirt. Her feet are bare on the terracotta tiles.

‘Watch you don’t catch a chill,’ he says.

Uncertainty flickers across her face; then she gives a tight smile. ‘Oh, I’m feeling loads better now.’ Her nose still sounds blocked.

A couple of trout lie on the glass chopping board. She picks up one and slides a long, thin knife under its left fin, cutting deep towards the head. Her bouncy hair is tied back with a polka-dot ribbon and her short nails are painted a cherry-juice red. A high, winding guitar plays a riff he doesn’t recognize from a silver stereo. She turns the fish over and begins to cut the other side. He clears his throat and she springs up.

‘Niall. Sorry, I’m a bit flustered today.’ She shouldn’t have to apologize; he knows he was the one who overstepped the mark.

‘You’re all right,’ he says.

‘How’s the floor looking?’

‘Pretty good.’ He smiles hesitantly.

She looks back at him matter-of-factly. ‘OK, thanks.’ She proceeds to snap the head off the fish, gently, throwing it into a poly bag hanging from a drawer handle.

‘Those local?’ He tries to sound good-natured, friendly, but wonders why it seems so hard.

‘Huh?’ She turns back towards him, headless fish in hand. ‘Yeah. I caught them at the lochans.’ She shrugs, and he watches the way her plump mouth moves.

‘You’re into your fishing, are you?’ he says.

She laughs again, as if she’s embarrassed, and turns back to run her knife down the fish’s back, rippling the silver scales. Her hands are smooth and young. The kitchen smells of butter and lemon.

He walks over to her and stands just close enough to hear her breath as she begins to fillet the fish.