‘That’s it.’

And it’s not Charlie that starts coming for me, but Alec MacDonald. Any excuse to swing his fists, to get out whatever kind of rage it is he always brings back from the North Sea. Perhaps it was him. I can see a man like Alec butchering defenceless live-stock just for the hell of it. Jimmy gets up too, and that stings a little, almost as much as Bruce’s shaking head, until I realise it’s only to grab hold of Alec and pull him back against the bar.

But Jimmy doesn’t look at me either. And instead of remembering him telling me I had a friend in him if ever I needed one, I remember that flash of guilt in his eyes when I found him outside my barn.

No one is really looking at me, I realise. As if, to them, I’m the featureless blur pretending to be a person.

‘Son,’ Kenny says. He gets too close too quickly, blocking out everyone else. ‘Whatever’s wrong, you can tell us.’

Son! As if there weren’t less than ten years between us. I let the indignity of that override his outstretched hand, until I blink and his expression comes into sharp focus. It’s not smug or superior, but warm and maybe even concerned.

Charlie comes towards me then, palms still up like I might be a dangerous dog. ‘We want to help you.’

And I almost believe him. Until I think of Mamaidh’s face, pinched pale and blotched red with fury. If they knew, they would hate you.

So instead of answering Charlie, instead of answering any of them, I turn round and march back towards the door. When no one stops me, when no one even calls out my name, I yank it open.

‘Mary. Please.’ My voice is too weak over the wind, the rain. ‘Come with me?’

And although she hesitates, although she finally, finally, looks at me, in the end she only shakes her head.

CHAPTER 31

It’s dark but surprisingly warm inside the bothy. Aside from the fire, the only light comes from a squat half-burned candle. There’s one chair. A mattress and sleeping bag lie on the other side of the room; in its opposite corner, a small camping stove. The air is smoky, thick with the heavy sweetness of peat, but underneath is bitter, metallic. I notice the dead rabbit at the same time as the shotgun, lying side by side on the table.

‘A man should kill what he eats.’

My stomach squeezes a little – either at the gun or rabbit, perhaps both – and I fold my arms and square my shoulders. Do not allow panic or anxiety to get a foothold.

‘Why have you been watching me?’ It’s not the question I want to ask, of course. But everything is happening too fast and I can’t keep up. I need some space to regroup.

‘It’s what I do,’ he says.

‘Why have you been watching me?’

He smiles, so fleeting if feels like I imagined it. ‘I think you know why.’