And something must flash in my eyes at that, because Kelly lets me go to clasp her hands in delight. ‘You like him!’

I shake my head, press the heels of my palms against my eyelids. ‘I just … I don’t know what I’m doing, Kelly. I mean, I barely know him.’

‘Only you know what you should do, but if you need some reassurance, Will’s a good guy. He really is.’

‘I just. I dunno. I’m not supposed to be doing this. Acting on irrational or impulsive feelings is exactly what I’m supposed to avoid. To notice.’

‘Maggie. Look. I don’t know much. I get most of my life advice from the Kardashians and Dr Pimple Popper, but … you seem to have a better handle on yourself than most folk.’ Even though she’s smiling, her eyes are fierce. ‘Plus, you had sex with Will Morrison. And I’ve got to tell you, there’s nothing more fucking rational than that.’

Despite myself, I laugh, and when Kelly laughs back, I feel a burst of affection, of pure gratitude that makes me feel ashamed of my paranoia, my baseless suspicions.

‘You’re fine,’ Kelly says. ‘And I’ll tell you, okay? If I ever think you’re not fine. I promise.’ She winks. ‘In exchange, all you have to do is come back to the shop with me right now, so we can tell Sheena MacDonald that you’ve seen Will’s willy. She’ll die.’

*

I lean heavily against the wall of the phone box, watching two gulls chase a crisp packet down towards the ruined church as the phone rings and rings. I keep seeing that newspaper photo in my mind’s eye; keep thinking, What if Mum lied to me? What if none of it was ever true? What if she made me believe it? Keep remembering Mum’s tear-streaked face, all the times I heard I’m sorry, Maggie, I’m sorry. How little I cared in the end, how rarely I believed her.

It rings and rings. My heart is beating too fast and my throat is too dry; I keep having to swallow.

Don’t take this away from me, Mum. Don’t. Because – even despite that ‘9th of April’ on the death certificate – I need her not to have lied. If I wasn’t Andrew MacNeil in a past life then I need Mum not to have known it. Otherwise, I’ll never be able to forgive either of us.

Just like outside the Harbour View, when the rings click over into an automated voicemail, my relief is far too big. But I take the reprieve anyway. I don’t leave a message. It’s not as if Gordon Cameron can phone me back, and I don’t want to have this conversation over email. I want to hear his voice. And I want to hear the tone of it when he answers my questions.

I hang up and let out the breath I’ve been holding. A gust of wind rattles the phone box door, making me jump. The day outside has grown gloomy, but I jump again when I see that someone is standing in one of the cottage gardens, staring at the phone box. At me. I open the door and step back out onto the street. And I realise, with a sinking heart, that it’s Alec. The cottage is furthest from the junction, but I can still see the hostile set of his shoulders and his folded arms. I can still see his narrowed eyes, the open anger on his face. It occurs to me that I don’t actually know what he looks like without it. I consider going over to talk to him for only a few seconds; it will do no good. I may not like Sheena much, but I can’t deny what she said the night Alec attacked me outside this very phone box. At best, I’m a reminder of what happened to his son, and that’s more than reason enough to hate me.