‘It’s fine, Charlie. You did.’

‘I’m grateful to you, Maggie. I am.’ He knocks against the bar with his knuckles. ‘Jimmy, another Talisker over here.’

‘Hey,’ I say, managing to catch him by the shoulders before he overbalances and falls off the stool. ‘Why don’t we go sit at that table over there for a bit?’

‘Aye. Okay.’

By the time I’ve managed to get him off the stool and over to the table, the band has launched into a very loud, very fast ‘Baba O’Riley’. I glance over to see the unlikely figure of Isla, now minus her floppy hat, playing the piano with as much vigour as Donnie is playing his bagpipes.

‘I was a shit husband,’ Charlie says, as if there’s been no break at all in our conversation. He balls his hands into tight fists. ‘I treated Moira like shit.’

‘Charlie—’

‘It was my fault.’ His gaze focusses briefly on mine before sliding away again, and he takes in a hiccupping breath. ‘I had an affair, you know. Right here. Right under her nose.’

‘I don’t think you should be telling me this.’ Because his agitation is palpable, and even before he raised his voice, too many people were looking over at us.

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, lassie.’ He makes a visible effort to sit up, square his shoulders. ‘Maudlin old bastard.’ He sighs, runs his forefinger under his nose. ‘The peat harvest, everyone coming … coming back …’ He drifts off for a few seconds before blinking. ‘Makes the place feel different, you know? Makes the past, everyone who’s gone, feel that wee bit closer.’

I think of our first long-ago conversation on Long Stride below those sad stone memorials. ‘A thin place.’

The change in Charlie is immediate. His distress is so palpable that it straightaway infects me, a cool, ringing alarm that raises the hairs on the back of my neck. The tears in his eyes make me feel even worse. ‘Shit. I’m sorry. What did I—’

‘I haven’t been telling you the truth, Maggie. I haven’t told you the truth.’

‘I know.’ I take hold of his hands and squeeze. ‘But listen, it doesn’t matter.’ I think of Mum’s smile. Trust nobody. They all lie. And then she’s gone. Like a whisper I didn’t hear. ‘The truth isn’t everything, Charlie. It isn’t even the most important thing. The past is the past, no matter how close it is. You helped me see that.’ I try to smile. ‘And I guess, so did Robert.’

‘I knew the truth,’ Charlie says, as if I haven’t said a word. ‘I wanted you to write that story – I wanted to help you to write that story – because I knew the truth.’

‘Charlie,’ I say, and I’m squeezing his hands too tight, but I can’t help it. I need him to stop. I need him not to tell me anything that might risk what I’ve only just found here. What I’ve only just chosen. Behind us, ‘Baba O’Riley’ is reaching a deafening crescendo. ‘Please don’t—’