“She doesn’t think that,” breaks in Ben mildly. “Not really. She’d hardly be confronting us about it alone in an isolated house if she thought that. After all, who knows what we might do to her if we really are harassing her.” He looks at me pointedly. “Right, Ailsa?” I nod numbly, though his logic is flawed; without knowing the aim of the harassment, it’s unclear whether I’m at risk or not. But I’m still stuck on thieving father. Suspecting that a lot of people feel that way is very different to hearing it in person. “Ali, sit down,” Ben commands. “She was just thinking aloud. Right, Ailsa?”

“Right. This bint was just thinking aloud.” It comes out with deliberate tartness, now that I’ve refound my voice.

Ben barks a surprised laugh, and I’m taken aback to see that even Ali finds a reluctant smile touching his lips. “Ah. Well. Sorry about that.” I look at them both in bafflement for a moment, then find I’m inclining my head and smiling, too. I don’t quite understand how insulting Ali has brought more civility from him toward me than I’ve ever seen before, but somehow it has. Ali hooks his chair with his leg and sits down again, a touch sheepishly. I look at Ben. His face is carefully blank. It’s oddly chilling.

“All right,” says Ben. “So if we can proceed on the basis that neither Ali nor I are out to bury you under a heap of dead animals, who else might be in the picture?” I raise my eyebrows but don’t say anything, and I watch his face, waiting for the penny to drop. Now there’s no longer a lack of expression; I can see every thought. “No, wait . . . you don’t mean . . .” He trails off.

“She wouldnae,” says Ali stoutly. And then, after a beat, “And anyway, it couldnae be her. She was too smashed to go stealing bin bags, remember?”

“That doesn’t rule her out from fun with animal carcasses.”

Ali’s mouth twists. “You have a hell of a turn of phrase.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Dinnae,” he says sourly, but there’s a gleam in his eye. He likes this, this back-and-forth on the knife-edge of too much. He gets a kick out of it.

Ben ignores our traded barbs. “Come on, is it actually realistic to suggest that there’s more than one person terrorizing you?” he objects again.

I pick up my mug and take it to the sink. “It doesn’t seem realistic to me that there’s anybody terrorizing me at all.” But the alternative—that I’m imagining things—is too unthinkable. For me, at least; Carrie was certainly thinking it with the flies. “But nonetheless I found myself ducking a stone in my garden. Are there problems with gangs of kids round here?”