‘Well.’ Euan has lost much of his bluster. He widens his stance, holds out the palms of his hands. The Diplomat. ‘Indeed. Perhaps in the new year?’

‘My mamaidh always told me better to strike while the iron’s hot,’ Kenny says with a smile. He could give no more of a shit for the land than he does any of us; his sport is in setting odds and pitting men against each other. ‘How about we add it to the next agenda? See which way the wind blows then.’ When no one objects, he gives a satisfied nod and starts heading for the bar. ‘Right then, we’re all done. Let’s have a drink.’

When I stand up to leave, Euan blocks my exit.

‘I don’t know what your game is, Reid, but this is a warning: no one likes folk who stir up trouble.’

I look down at his fat pink fingers where they grip my shirt-sleeve. When he finally releases them, I meet his gaze and hold it. ‘I’m not looking to stir up trouble, Euan. I just think a man should own his home, the land he works on. Same way I think a man should own only what he needs and no more.’

There are beads of sweat on Euan’s round cheeks. And his jovial laugh is for everyone else’s benefit, because his eyes are suddenly narrow-sharp and furious. ‘That literally the hill you’re going to die on, Robert?’

I turn away from him and walk out of the pub without answering or looking at anyone else. The air outside is bitterly cold, and I breathe it in, relishing the sting in my nostrils, the sharper pain as it hits my lungs.

‘Hey, Robert. Wait,’ Charlie says, opening the door behind me. ‘You not staying for a dram?’

The two MacDonald kids, Lorne and Sheena, are playing down by the shop. Alec’s wife, Fiona, must be behind its counter. I think about buying a bottle of whisky, but this isn’t Aberdeen. It’ll go around like a dose of the clap that I’d rather drink alone than for free.

‘I agree with what you said back there, you know. Fact is, men like us always get squeezed by men like him.’ Charlie snorts, and it fogs white in the space between us. ‘Guess they don’t like it when we squeeze back.’

‘Never met a fisherman yet who cares more about the land.’

‘I have land. Croftland. I’m not Kenny. I don’t want to be a fisherman forever.’ Something comes into his eyes then. I recognise it. Something haunted enough to make me feel ashamed.

‘I don’t want to be a farmer forever,’ I say. And it’s a peace offering, of sorts.

‘Maybe we could job-share.’ He smiles, and that look is gone. He’s just Charlie MacLeod again. Smiling, charming, everyone’s friend. The kind of man who sings loudest in the pub, carries women’s bags, helps dig a neighbour’s peat. Who’d never understand why anyone wouldn’t like him. How that might even be possible. And whose wife looks about as miserably unhappy as any wife I’ve ever seen.