‘You weans having a party up here, then, eh?’ Most of his vowels were turned inside out, a proper Glaswegian. He sat down and leant his elbows behind him on the table. Becca moved away from him to the furthest end of the bench.

‘Just hanging out,’ said Fraser. He was standing tall, being the grown-up among us.

‘Nice one, fella, nice one.’ He looked at me again. And at Becca.

I slid the sleeping bag over my knees. The pill was making my brain tick. There was an uncomfortable silence, apart from the spattering fire, and Becca, scuffing her toe on the stone.

The man huffed loudly and stretched.

‘Do you want a drink?’ asked Fraser. ‘We’ve got beer and vodka.’

Shifting forward, the guy lightly pounded one palm into the knuckles of his other hand. ‘Naw, man. I’m off the cheeky stuff. Just tea for me these days. Red, green and white. My personal trainer’s put me on it. Got any hot water?’ He rose abruptly and looked in the cupboard by the fire. ‘Oh aye, I’ll boil some up.’ Pulling out an old-fashioned black kettle, he took some of our bottled water and glugged it in, before hooking the kettle on the pole above the fire and standing watching it. ‘Like being in the Middle Ages or something, no?’

The strip of his hair went all the way down to the base of his neck and was flecked with grey. A sort of toilet-brush Mohican. He didn’t seem to have the slightest idea that he might not be particularly welcome. Or maybe he just didn’t care – it was hard to tell. He came over and shook Fraser’s hand and mine and told us his name was Rocky. Maybe it was the raccoon look he had going on.

He craned his neck down at Becca, whose hair was hanging in front of her face. ‘You OK under there, sweet cheeks?’

Becca continued to give the floor utter evils, her finger in the wax.

He wandered round, looking at the very little there was in the room. Finn was still sound asleep in the corner, one knee up against his face.

Rocky picked up Finn’s phone and started scrolling through it. ‘Got any Tamla Motown?’

Fraser glanced at me, very quickly, with a derogatory grin. ‘Don’t think so.’

‘Shame, that. Best music there is, that and a wee bit of Northern Soul, maybe.’ He caught me biting my lip at Fraser. ‘Come on, you’re not telling me you don’t like some of that. Gladys Knight, Diana Ross. Smokey Robinson.’

‘No, there’s nothing wrong with any of them,’ I said. ‘We’re just into more – they’re just a bit old-fashioned.’

‘Old-fashioned my arse. It’s a fucking sight better than this shite.’ He sounded sharper, just for a second, before he spoke brightly and high again. ‘Kids these days, eh, you don’t know what’s good music, all this bleepy buzz-buzz crap, it’s got no soul.’

‘I guess we’re just different, then. I’m sure some – kids are into it.’ I spoke in my best soapy water voice.