‘It’s an earth cellar. Kind of an extended root cellar, I guess.’ Kelly makes a face. ‘I’ve been down there like once, gave me the proper creeps.’ She goes over to the kitchenette, opens the fridge. ‘There’re two bins round the side of the house: general waste and recycling. Just wheel them down to the road every Thursday night, and keep your fingers crossed someone turns up to empty them. I’ve left you coffee, milk, butter, eggs, bread, some lamb chops that were going cheap at the shop. I can only eat them this time of year, when they aren’t bouncing about outside the window begging me to give them names. Oh, and to warn you, everything comes to a standstill on a Sunday, I’m afraid. Nothing will be open, no public transport. Most folk’ll either be going to the church at Urbost or one of the others on Lewis and Harris. D’you go to church? I mean, it’s not a rule or anything, but there’s plenty of choice: Church of Scotland, Wee Free, Catholic—’

‘I don’t go to church.’ I think of Mum’s funeral. A twenty-minute slot in Hither Green Crematorium.

‘Me either; we can be heathens together. Oh, and I got you this as a Welcome-to-the-Blackhouse.’ She pulls a bottle of fizz from the fridge and sets it down on the counter, waves away my thanks as she opens a cupboard and takes out a bottle of whisky instead. ‘But, I got this for emergencies.’ She finally pauses, finally draws breath. ‘And I’m completely knackered pretending nothing nuts just happened back there.’

‘I thought you said whisky was gross,’ I say, playing for time.

She pours it into two glasses, hands one to me. ‘It is.’

I take a sip, even though I can’t stand whisky, particularly not the island kind, malted over peat fires. ‘Don’t you need to get back for Fraser?’

‘Jaz is looking after him.’ She grins. ‘Listen, this is the most interesting night I’ve had in weeks. Minute I go back to the pub I’ll find out – or more likely be told – what’s what. So quit stalling. Spill.’

I don’t say anything, and it’s a mistake. I did that too often in the Maudsley; it gives weight to silence, to the thing you’re trying not to talk about.

Kelly drops her smile. ‘God. I’m sorry. I do this. Mum says I’m nosier than a tabloid journalist. It’s the Hebridean in me – no question too personal; no secret a secret for long. But you don’t have to tell me anything. I mean, it’s just because you don’t look … you know …’ Her cheeks get pinker. ‘Like you were … once an Andrew. Shit. That’s not—’

‘God, no, it’s – I’m not – okay.’ I sit down at the dining table, press cool palms against my face. ‘Okay.’

Kelly sits too.

I drain the whisky. I probably shouldn’t be drinking at all, but Dr Abebe isn’t here to see me, and so I decide it doesn’t count. ‘I’m originally from Croy. It’s a village northeast of Inverness. And when I was five years old, I came here. To this island. Mum …’ My voice manages not to break on the word. Progress. ‘She brought me.’