I think of lying in bed reading about the Norsemen of the Western Isles as that white-bright light moved slowly across the walls. Sometimes I’d track its comforting progress in seconds—always the same number, never changing. Mary is right. I can destroy everything we have without even trying. The trying comes from knowing that. From seeing it. We need our own white-bright light. To protect us from the dark and from the storms. And from ourselves. So I go over to the workbench against the furthest wall, reach for my cross-cut saw and one of the long lengths of pine I picked up in Bhaltos. And I get to work.

CHAPTER 8

The hangover’s a doozy. More mental than physical, which, of course, is one of the reasons I’m not supposed to drink in the first place. I wake up far too early with a ball of anxiety in my stomach, and the first thing I think of is that someone standing in the darkness watching me. The second is of those weird dead birds still in the wheelie bin.

I get up, have a scalding hot shower, a strong coffee. I prop the photo of Robert next to my laptop, and start googling images of crows until I find one with black tailfeathers and a grey body; a sharp, curved beak. Similar in appearance and size to carrion crows, hoodies or hooded crows are found in N and W Scotland and N Ireland. The hooded crow is often referenced in Celtic and Norse mythology and ritual. I shiver, pull on a hoodie and go outside. Today, the low sun is bright in a cloudless sky. I glance across at the farm before going round the side of the blackhouse. I open the wheelie bin lid. The two crows lie side by side: black and grey feathers, muddy brown hollow wing shafts, deep dark eyeless sockets. Should I keep them as some kind of evidence? Of what? Are they a threat? A go home? A sign? I think of Charlie’s thin place. Where order meets chaos. And it makes me angry. If it is a threat, and that seems likely given my reception and that I’m still certain someone was watching me in the dark, then I’m giving whoever’s doing it exactly what they want. A reaction. But that is something I can control.

I slam the lid down, go back around the house. And I make myself walk across the headland to Will Morrison’s farm before I can give in to the temptation to put on some makeup or change out of my hoodie. Up close, the cottage is freshly painted white, with a large red door. Next to it is a carved wooden plaque: Tuathanas Àrd Chreag. I hesitate, my fist poised in the air. This is just a casual neighbourly hello. It’s research, that’s all.

And then the big red door opens, and Will is standing inside it. Far too big, far too bright, and far too much the same as last night.