The man assigned by James’s newspaper to give him six free sessions looked depressed and aloof himself, right on cue, every third Thursday afternoon of the month. That made it very easy, in the neutral tones of the consulting room, for James to brush aside any suggestion that coming home for the first time in two decades might result in feelings of detachment. But now that he was back at Kippen, he was desperate to recall his counsellor’s throwaway advice about being self-aware.

He pushed impatiently back through the tall weeds until he could see the tops of the vehicles parked by the toilets. Morning sun was sharpening everything in the park at the bottom of the short, steep hill behind the shops. Retreating was an option, but returning to his car, driving back to the main street and waiting for the vague appointment he’d made at the real estate office wasn’t going to make him feel any better than going into the toilet block, pretending to take a piss, and just seeing what there was to see.

‘If you feel yourself starting to go emotionally numb, pause and make sure you’re experiencing your home town as it is, not as it was. Name the feelings, make notes if you need.’

That had been his counsellor’s suggestion. Then, true to form, James had started treating Tony’s death like it was a news assignment, made room on his schedule, booked his flights, and packed for two days away as though anaesthetised.

Fuck it, James thought. Let’s see how detached I really am.

He passed quickly up the slope away from the river, feeling like he could be a stranger just seeking directions. The gritty sound of his footfalls seemed dangerously loud as he crossed the car park and approached the brick toilet block with its fresh coat of paint. Only when he was standing in the deserted entranceway, its blazing squares of light illuminating the ceiling, did James start to feel an unwelcome warmth. Turning back now would only put him in the pathway of any man following from one of the vehicles.

Around the corner, two backs greeted him at the urinal. A tall guy in a cowboy hat made fleeting eye contact and James could see he was thick-jawed. The other was older, in a grey farmer’s parka and a wide, flat-brimmed hat.

James moved into a stall and almost immediately the door pushed open. Hoping to see the blunt, handsome face of the cowboy, James turned. But it was the old guy reaching one red, creased hand through and covering the place where the bolt would go.

Suddenly cold to his core, James pushed him out and locked the door. There was a scuffle of shoes and the sound of a zipper closing.

The cowboy laughed from the urinal. ‘Nice to see someone young, for once.’

James swore under his breath.

‘You come here at night?’ the cowboy said.