It had been hot, the summer they’d turned twelve, the island golden and turquoise in Donald’s memory. They would both try and finish working by two o’clock, Malcolm on the croft, Donald at the creels, racing through a checklist so they could meet at the cross and run out to the rocks, strip, and launch themselves off the overhang. The trick was to time it just right so that they hit the water together, the force of their two skinny bodies creating a dizzying ricochet of noise around their heads as they went under. Then the few seconds of panic, scrambling frantically to bring yourself back to the surface, battling against the pull of the sea, that strange part of you that wanted to stay under there and just be taken. Then the burst of air, the gasp, the coming back to yourself. Then Malcolm, spitting, inhaling, laughing. Wet arms would wrap round necks, and they’d wrestle each other and the tide, forcing heads below the surface, treading water till one of them pulled back to the wee beach, then it became a race, swimming and running, back to the top of the rock again. Coming near enough to death for the thrill, saving yourself. Rehearsing.

Donald had been feart to do it for the first few times.

‘My mam says a boy died here. She made us all promise we were never to even go near the edge. You can’t break a promise to your mam. Malcolm. Wait!’

‘That’s an old wives’ tale,’ Malcolm yelled, already naked and backing up along the rock face for his run.

‘I mean it, Malcolm. You’ll drown.’

‘You’re just a shiter, Donald Bain!’

And he disappeared over the edge, thin arms flapping like a hopeless fledgling. Malcolm was taller than him then, but in that second Donald was struck by how very small he looked. Donald ran to the edge, laid himself down cautiously on the surface, stomach first, and hooked his head over. The rippling circle gave him a good bullseye point as to where Malcolm must be, but it was fading fast. A couple of bubbles broke the surface, then nothing. The panic hit Donald in the stomach, twisted there.

‘Malcolm? Malcolm!’ he yelled, even though he knew that no-one could hear him. His breath was heavy. He wasn’t going to cry, just in case. He wasn’t.

It couldn’t have been longer than a few seconds until the bubbles began again, until Malcolm’s slicked-down head broke the surface, his hair like wet sand and his face red, coughing. He craned his neck up the rock face to Donald and started laughing, pulled a hand out of the water and flashed him the V-sign.

‘You’re a bad bastard, Malcolm Campbell,’ Donald yelled down to him.

‘And you’re a shiter! Get down here. SHITE-ER! SHITE-ER! SHITE-ER!’