I want to tell him about the dead birds. The person watching me in the dark. Even the real reason I’m here, why I’ve come to this island. But already I care too much about what he thinks. Ravi knew everything about me – he always insisted on that, on knowing every dark and cluttered corner, every urge and thought and want and weakness. And if he ever looked at me the way Will looks at me, I’ve forgotten it. I’m too used to pity and exasperation and instruction. I’m too used to being judged. And nearly always found wanting.

We walk in silence for a while. As the next headland comes into view, a building appears slap bang in the middle of it. Three-storeyed with dark basalt walls, pink sandstone window surrounds, crow-stepped gables, and a Saltire flying from a pole on its roof.

‘Wow. That has to be the Big Hoose, right?’

‘It’s the Laird’s Lodge, aye.’

‘God. It’s huge. No wonder Charlie—’

‘Ah Christ, spare me the Charlie says on that,’ Will says, for the first time sounding pissed off. ‘Euan Morrison’s done a lot of good for this island, and Charlie knows it. That house and this headland are just about all that’s left of his estate after he sold the rest back to the islanders.’

‘Sorry. I mean I get it, but wow. Look at it.’ I shrug, pretending not to be worried that I’ve annoyed him. ‘And the tweed suits. The glamtastic wife. It’s—’

‘Careful,’ Will says. ‘That’s my mum you’re talking about.’

‘Shit.’ This time, my face flushes hot enough to burn. ‘Shit. I’m sorry. That was so rude. I didn’t know they were your parents. God, I’m always – everyone round here has the same surnames and—’

He puts a warm hand on my shoulder, and when I can bear to look, his smile is back. ‘Relax, Maggie. She’d probably be very pleased with glamtastic.’

He laughs when I close my eyes.

‘So you lived there?’

‘Yep. Ah, crap,’ he says, as a figure steps out the massive front door. ‘We’d better get out of here before they clock us, or we’ll never escape.’

We climb a low sloping hill that moves parallel to the coast, and which, gentle or not, seems destined never to level off. My hangover begins to reassert itself in hot chills and a pounding headache. Until we reach the top.

‘This,’ Will says. ‘Is my wow.’

At the bottom of the hill is a vast green meadow stretching as far as the eye can see. It’s gorgeous, dotted with silver-still lochans, gold winter heather, and boulders covered in moss and orange lichen.

It opens something inside my chest, precarious and fragile; a sense of longing that I suppose is awe or wonder. At this uncannily beautiful place full of a light and colour so at odds with the bronze desolation of those inland bens and glens. It’s a childlike feeling – a thrill unknown but safe – the excitement of Christmas, of Halloween, of a ghost story whispered while tucked up warm in bed. I can feel the sting of ludicrous tears, and blink them away. ‘It really is lovely,’ I manage to say.