Malcolm’s rages were something else. They only ever happened when he was drunk, would ratchet up in volume and incoherence, seemed designed to turn heads in the pub or the street, before fizzling off. On Skye, in the summertime, he drank because someone would always buy him one. In Inverness, in the winter, he drank because the pub was not that flat full of Eileen’s curdled nicotine hate, or because he wanted to pass out at the place they’d played and have Donald carry him gently back to the van, tuck him up in there next to the kit and post a note through the door to his wife. He’d murmur, ‘Come on then, man. Come on,’ and heft his friend to his chest, Malcolm’s head cooried in to his clavicle. He’d ease him down like you would a baby, pull the blanket they insulated the instruments with over him. Sometimes he’d just look at him for a while. The sweep of long sandy lashes on his cheek, the perfect sheen of his skin in the spilled street light from the window. Once, just once, he reached out and stroked his face; and Malcolm grabbed his finger and pulled hard, eyes open and glaring.

‘Keep your fucking hands to yourself, you bloody fairy. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to, because I do. I always have.’

Donald was backing away, stumbling on knees in the dark.

‘Malcolm, man—’

Malcolm stayed lying down, but the force of his voice hit like a punch thrown. The words were suddenly crisp and clear, no slurring any more.

‘What are you doing here, eh? Why are you still here, Donald Bain? There’s me and my wife and my child, and there’s you. There always seems to be you.’

‘Eh. It’s just the way it’s happened, Malcolm. This is what we do.’

‘We. We. How about you just worry about you from now on? How about you just stay out of my business, always hanging about, always there, from when we were boys, just mooning about, aren’t you. What is it you want, exactly? You want to fuck my wife? Is that it? You want that sharp-tongued bitch in your bed instead? You want my little girl calling you Daddy? Or do you want to be the woman, Donald Bain? You just going to hope that some day all this sheer persistence will pay off and I’ll turn to you instead? Just get away from me, you disgusting fucking fairy. Just get away and I’ll not call the police.’