‘Mum believed that we’re all reincarnated. But that I only remembered because I was psychic like her.’ I never talk about this, not even with counsellors and therapists, because it always makes me feel dirty, itchy. Like I’m admitting to something I never did. ‘And because she thought he’d died badly.’

‘He died badly all right,’ Kelly says. ‘The sea down on those beaches might look like the bloody Caribbean, but it scares the shit out of me. And have you seen those morbid monuments? I can’t bear to even take Fraser paddling out there.’ She flinches when the water boils over to hiss on the hob; gives a self-conscious laugh as she gets up to turn down the heat. And I think of how alone and uneasy I’d felt today just standing on a cliff swamped by fog and rain and the sounds of that sea.

‘Anyway,’ she says, replacing the pot lid and turning round. ‘You said that the dates don’t match. That Andrew, Robert, whatever his name was, died in April, and you were born, what – in February, right?’

‘Charlie could be lying.’

Kelly blinks. ‘About the date? Why would he?’

‘I dunno. Why did he lie about Andrew in the first place? Or maybe he’s just remembered wrong.’ Wanting something to be true, Dr Abebe says in my ear, can be a very dangerous road.

Suddenly all I can see is Mum sitting by my bed, my nightlight illuminating those curly wisps of hair at her temples and the slow half-smile that I grew to hate. Years and years of nights, of her soft and sure mantras like bedtime stories. People like us, Maggie, we can’t deny what we are. People like us, Maggie, we must always be open, we must never be closed. People like us, Maggie, we have to listen to our bad feelings. I don’t want it to be true. But at the same time, God, I do. I do, I do.

I clear my throat, make an effort to smile. ‘Anyway, it’s going to take at least fifteen days to process the birth and death certificates, but then I’ll know the actual dates for sure. And maybe I’ll discover something else that I can actually write a story about.’

‘Did you accuse anyone?’ Kelly says, after a long pause. ‘Back when you were a kid. When you said you were Andrew MacNeil and you’d been murdered. Did you ever say who’d done it?’

‘What?’ I’m caught off guard. ‘No. I mean – no.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Kelly says, her cheeks pink. ‘That was a bit too tabloid journalist.’

‘It’s okay. I really don’t remember much, to be honest. Mum told me most of it.’

Sobbing hard in breathless hiccups: I want – to – go – home, and Mum on her knees, holding my hands. Okay, my darling, okay. We’ll go home. Knowing even at five years old that she didn’t mean it. Knowing that she didn’t want to.

Kelly tops up our glasses. ‘Rather than wait for the certificates, why don’t you go to the town hall in Stornoway instead? They hold civil and parish records. We can ask around tonight; I’m sure someone will be going in the next few days, you could cadge a lift. I’d take you but my car’s still in the garage at Tarbert. I think he might have expired, and they’re too afraid to tell me.’ She flashes me the biggest grin. ‘But that doesn’t mean you get out of telling me what you find out, okay?’