‘We can get you away from the Pier House for a start,’ Sandy said. ‘It’ll do no good for people to see you in here so soon after what happened. Finish your pint and I’ll take you back.’

Ronald looked at the full glass, pushed it away from him so the beer slopped on to the table. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t be drinking at all. I’ll give it up. It won’t bring Mima back but I’ll not do that to anyone else. I’ve got the bairn to think about now. And it’ll make Anna happy. Maybe. You have it Sandy.’

But suddenly Sandy couldn’t face the beer either. They walked out of the bar leaving the glasses untouched on the table.

They stood together at the cars. The mist was still so low that they couldn’t see much beyond the harbour wall. The fishing boats with their huge winches and aerials turned into the silhouettes of sea monsters with spiny backs and serrated jaws.

‘What’s Anna up to?’ Sandy asked.

‘She’s at home. The midwife was going to visit. I’d only be in the way.’ Sandy was surprised by the bitterness in Ronald’s voice and wondered what it must be like to live with a woman who made you feel that way. His mother was desperate for him to marry someone with brains and an education but that was the last thing Sandy wanted.

Ronald continued. ‘I wish I could be at work myself. Usually I hate it, but just now it would be good to have a few weeks in the Atlantic after the white fish.’

Sandy couldn’t understand that either – working at something you hated, even if the money was so good. He supposed there’d been pressure from Ronald’s family for him to take his place in the boat. And how would they be able to afford that huge house without the money it brought in?

‘You don’t mean that, not with the baby just home.’ Though Sandy thought babies brought out the worst in women. All the female relatives would be crowding into the bungalow, cooing and gurgling, sharing stories of labour and the cowardice of men. He could understand why Ronald had taken himself off on his own with a gun the night before.

‘Will you be OK on your own?’ Something about the way Ronald was talking made Sandy picture him holding a shotgun under his chin and blowing his head off. It couldn’t happen that way, of course – Ronald’s shotgun was in Perez’s boot on the way to Lerwick – but in Shetland suicide wasn’t hard to arrange if you wanted it badly enough. There were cliffs to jump from, water to drown in.

‘Sure.’