‘I’m glad to be back,’ I say, smiling through still-chattering teeth. And I only just manage not to say the last word, still on the tip of my tongue. Home.

CHAPTER 22

Robert

The storm is no calmer by the time I stumble up the path to the blackhouse. I flinch from the figure I see suddenly moving away from the barn door. And then I drop my plastic bag and run towards it, storm and dread be damned.

But it’s Jimmy. I stop, confused enough to lose what impetus my anger gave me. When I shine my torchlight over his face, he blinks and looks away, but not before I see the flicker of guilt in his eyes. He’s in his fisherman’s waterproofs, neon-yellow in the gloom, so hardly hiding, but still. I think of that someone always watching me, watching my flock. I think of the slow-pulsing heat of the ewe as she died.

‘I was out at West Point, got caught in the storm,’ he says – half-shouts – over the wind. ‘Just wanted to see if you’d got the sheep in okay or needed some help.’

I can hear the sheep in the barn – even over the roar of the waves and thunder – their baas are discordant and afraid.

‘I’m fine, Jimmy.’

‘Aye.’ He shifts his weight from foot to foot. Glances at me and then away again. ‘Look, I just wanted to say … I know what it’s like to be the outsider. Places like this, they …’ He shakes his head. ‘I just wanted to say, you’ve a friend in me. If you ever need one.’

And this time when I shine my torch towards him, he looks suddenly every inch of only nineteen, embarrassed and earnest, a frown on his lips as if ready to take it all back if I laugh. I don’t.

‘Thanks.’ And I wonder, briefly, if I’m going mad. If I really am as paranoid as Mary says I am. When another bang of thunder shakes the grass under our feet, Jimmy ducks and turns back for the path and road, raising a hand in goodbye.

I stand for a few seconds longer until Jimmy’s own light disappears, the rain starts drumming down harder, and another roar of thunder sets my heart beating too fast again. I check the barn door, and then I turn and run for the blackhouse, picking up the bag before shoving my shoulder against the front door. Calum, wearing Spider-Man pyjamas and holding a sippy cup of milk, freezes inside the kitchen, his mouth a round O.

‘Hey, wee man.’ I try to slow my breathing, but I know my smile is not a good one. A convincing one. ‘D’you want to come down to the cellar? Come on, let’s go down to the cellar.’

‘I’m having my milk.’

‘I know. You can have your milk down in the cellar.’ A crack of lightning sounds overhead, shaking the front door inside its frame. I flinch. ‘Come on, Calum.’