Do you ever get a bad feeling, Maggie?

I set the torch down, go back into the kitchenette, fish out a bin bag from under the sink, and put on some rubber gloves. I try not to look at the birds again as I pick them up, but I can feel the brittle sharpness of their wings, the cool softness of their bellies as I shove them into the bag. It has to have been an animal. A dog, maybe. Or more likely a cat. A big one. In London, I once saw my neighbour’s Bengal take down a pigeon.

I stand up, look around at the howling darkness, those little square lights in the east, before backing up the path to the doorway.

I stand inside the mudroom and drop the bag onto the floor. I think of waking up from that nightmare of shadows and rock and grass, the roar of the wind. Mum pushing the damp hair away from my forehead, my tear-streaked cheeks. People like us, Maggie, we have to listen to our bad feelings. And I’m so sorry that I didn’t.

And then another, older memory – the memory: sharp, always so sharp, against a background vague and white and forgotten. The squeeze of my fists; the hoarseness of my throat; the hotness of my tears; the hard throb of my feet as if I’d been standing still a long, long time.

I’m Andrew MacNeil. I’m Andrew MacNeil. I’m Andrew MacNeil!

Mum kneeling in front of me, holding my hands, looking up at me with that same light in her eyes, that serene smile. Yes, you are.

And being afraid for the first time – though by no means the last – of that light, that smile. Frightened enough that it sent tremors all the way through me and into her.

I shine my torchlight over the empty path where those birds had been, lying side by side with their wings fanned out and sleek heads touching. Like an arrow pointing straight at the blackhouse.

I’m so sorry that I took you there, baby. I’m so, so sorry.

I switch off the torch. ‘I’m not here for you, Mum,’ I say into the darkness. But I want to shout it. ‘I’m here for me.’

I blink at the night. The smell of the sea on the wind.

I’m here to prove that twenty-five years ago on this island, a man called Andrew MacNeil was murdered.

I pick up the bag. Shut the door. And lock it.

CHAPTER 3

I wake up to sunlight streaming through a gap in the curtains. It’s eleven forty-five and freezing cold. I get out of bed, put on thermals under jeans and a hoodie, and open the curtains before shuffling into the kitchenette to make myself a very strong coffee. The sunlight has transformed the large room, turned its varnished pine walls golden-bright.

I feel better after the coffee. Put on my yellow mac and boots. While it’s tempting just to hide in here forever, I know I can’t. I open the cupboard under the sink, look down at that black bag. The sudden certainty that it’s empty is a familiar yet frightening one – far more frightening than finding strange dead birds on your path that weren’t there less than an hour before. Do not allow panic or anxiety to get a foothold, I think in Dr Abebe’s voice. The first step to trusting yourself is never being afraid to. And it’s this that lets me pick up the bag and open it. I only look long enough to see those brown wing ribs and black underbellies. My relief feels too big, too unwieldy. It reminds me that whatever trust I’ve had in myself – and I’ve never had much – is gone.