I shiver a little and think of that noise outside the blackhouse last night. How strange those dead birds had looked. Had felt.

‘D’you know what a thin place is?’ Charlie asks.

‘No.’

‘It’s Norse and Celtic. Pagan, and then later Christian. A thin place is where they say the distance between this world and other worlds is shortest, the walls thinnest.’ He pauses. Scratches the white scruff of stubble on his chin. ‘Someone told me a long time ago that a thin place is where inside the fence meets beyond the fence. Where order meets chaos. Some folk think thin places are where you can know things, do things, see things that you couldn’t anywhere else.’

‘Ghosts?’

‘Bòcain.’ He shrugs. ‘Aye.’

And I’m thinking less about his Coffin Road procession than the bony grip of Mum’s fingers, her always furiously certain I know you can see the darkness.

‘Kilmeray is a thin place?’

‘Supposed to be.’

Which, I notice, in spite of his spectre ship and Coffin Road stories, isn’t really a yes.

We both look at the sand, the sea, the sky; listen to the silence beyond the wind and the waves.

‘Mum would’ve believed it,’ I finally say.

‘I remember your mum,’ Charlie nods. ‘She was a good woman.’

Even in the midst of this strange conversation, I almost laugh at that. What Mum would have made of being called a good woman. ‘You talked to her?’

‘Talked to you both. You were like a determined tornado. A tiny wee thing with black wild curls and stick legs that wouldn’t stay still for more than a minute.’

‘She just died,’ I say, finally giving in to the urge to say it. ‘Bowel cancer.’

And then there is Dr Lennon again, with his moustache, squeezing my hands between his cool fleshy palms as Mum sits hunched in a chair, refusing to look at either of us. It’s spread to the lungs and brain. Without treatment, we’re talking months, perhaps only weeks.

‘Ach, that’s …’ Charlie closes his eyes, shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry to hear it, lassie.’

I nod. Unclench my fists. Make my spine and shoulders straight. ‘I really do promise that I’m not here to cause trouble, Charlie.’ And although this is not entirely a lie, it’s not the truth either. I will. If I have to.

When he opens his eyes and turns to look at me, he does it with purpose, as if he’s come to some private decision. ‘When you came here, you and your mum, we didn’t treat you fairly. You were just a wee bairn, and you didn’t deserve it. And it’s only right that you know why.’

My heartbeat picks up, drumming hard enough that I can feel it. ‘I know why. I was telling anyone and everyone that my name was Andrew MacNeil and that someone on this island had murdered me.’

Charlie’s gaze slips away from mine, and when he shakes his head, something cold turns over in my belly; a frisson of dark excitement. When he takes out his hip flask again and passes it over to me, I accept without comment, drink, and pass it back. The measure he takes for himself is significantly larger, and afterwards, he inhales long and loud before turning to look back at me.