She’s maybe abroad again, he told himself, realising he had no idea how the girl filled her days now. He imagined her as a female version of himself at the same age, travelling between gigs, eating only when she could afford it, taking the odd lover, man or woman, when the spirit moved her. It had been a good life; he liked to think of it continuing. That’ll be it, he told himself. She’ll get the message once she gets back.

Elspeth wired the details of the funeral – on the island, family only (she acknowledged that he would be the exception), no flowers, no music; everything Malcolm would have hated, but well, he wasn’t here to complain. It arrived two days after Morna returned, exhausted and wrung out, living on the edge of her nerves and permanently awaiting news of the baby. He waited until she was napping before trying the bloody phone one last time.

Next morning, the light on the answer machine was blinking when he went downstairs to get the breakfast started. Her voice spilled out from somewhere far far away.

‘OK, yeah, I didn’t think anyone would be up. I didn’t – God, it’s really late, isn’t it? I mean I just got in and I didn’t realise. I got the letter. I got the message. I got them.

‘I’m sorry Malcolm is dead. I probably went out to – ha, yeah yeah, let’s psychoanalyse me. Ooh, I wonder why I went out to have a drink tonight. Sorry. Sorry, this is totally bad. What am I doing? Talking to you. Right, but it’s Malcolm. I know. I know I should be there and go to the funeral and sing a song. I sing songs at a lot of funerals these days.