Dad had been in no state to drive, full of shock and rage at Andy Jones, who’d taken off as soon as they’d reached the shore and heard the sirens. James had agreed to wait for the fire crew so his father could tell them he was a policeman up at Kippen and would be in touch with the Dangar police. He’d bundled them into Tony’s Ford, retrieved a few rags from the boot to stem the flow of blood from the wound on Dad’s head, and hit the road.

All the way up the ranges his father had spewed out his rage, giving profuse apologies for his inactions, explaining his approach to policing again and again until James lost track of whether he’d been talking about Tony, or Brian Fryer, or any number of others.

By the time they’d stopped for fuel at Wishaw, both of them had stopped bleeding, but they’d been so hungry they’d ripped through takeaway sandwiches and chips. Dad had finally stopped raving and fallen asleep while James drove into Kippen. He’d pulled into the hospital and had to shout at the nurse to stop tending to his face and hands and just go and check his father over, still half asleep in the car. She’d looked worried about Dad’s unbalanced state, asking what time he’d banged his head; then there’d been a delay in finding a doctor to break his appointment list at Wishaw and drive over to Kippen to administer the emergency treatment they’d both needed.

James hated seeing Dad like that, and hearing talk of possible brain injuries. He’d woken many times in the night expecting to hear terrible news, like his father had slipped into a coma; but this new day seemed peaceful. The voices coming from the kitchen were calm, so he closed his eyes and counted all the sounds. Birds were chattering in the tree outside the window, water rushed through pipes as taps turned on and off, and if he really listened, he could hear the gentle rise and fall of the sheets as he breathed.

He must have fallen asleep again, because the next thing he heard was Dylan.

‘Cuppa tea, Darl?’ his partner said, carrying a tray with two mugs and a plate of toast. ‘Aunty Doris said there’s more where this came from, and to take your time.’

Dylan was wearing an old jumper and a hat that looked as though it had come from the rack by Deloraine’s kitchen door. ‘What are you up to?’ James said, trying to sit up.

‘Let me do that,’ Dylan said, putting the tray by the daffodils and piling pillows. He leaned over to kiss James on his forehead. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Bit sore, but I’m fine,’ James said, squeezing one of Dylan’s fingers. ‘Any news about Dad?’