“You did,” I insist. “You were wearing Carrie’s T-shirt . . .” I trail off. She is wearing Carrie’s T-shirt, but this one is maroon, not white, and under it she has her own jodhpurs, not black jeans. If she’s playing me, she’s a better actress than Carrie, even.

“Maybe you dreamed it,” says Carrie gently. She’s using the same tone as after the flies incident. My internal screaming grows louder. “You were drinking too. Maybe you—”

“I didn’t dream it,” I say quietly. Carrie flinches. Fiona looks from her to me and back again. I say it again, louder. “For fuck’s sake, I did NOT dream it.”

“Ailsa, calm down—”

“Did I dream the skull? You guys saw that, right? You get that somebody crept into this house—my house—and put a skull, a human skull, in the middle of a bed? You do understand that? So, no, I haven’t been fucking dreaming. She”—I’m pointing at Fiona now, which is incredibly rude, but under the circumstances, I feel a right to throw away certain social conventions—“she came into my room and woke me up, she said it was the wrong time, whatever the hell that means, and then she left. It was freaky enough that I got out of bed to check you were okay, Carrie, if you must know.” I’m so angry I’m almost shaking. Fiona has reached out a hand and placed it on Carrie’s forearm. Carrie won’t meet my eyes. I look at Fiona. “I knew I wouldn’t sleep until I knew where the hell you were, so that’s why I checked that room.” Neither of them are saying anything. “Why did you take an upstairs room, anyway?” And why did you change out of the white T-shirt?

Fiona pauses almost imperceptibly, then shrugs. “No particular reason.” Despite my stare, she won’t hold my gaze. It’s the first thing she’s said that doesn’t quite ring true.

There’s a very long silence. I can’t tell what Carrie is thinking. Certainly what I’ve just said doesn’t qualify as civil. I drop my head and rest my eye sockets on the heels of my hands, blocking out the light. I wish I could block out more, but I have to lift my head. “It doesn’t matter how I found it anyway. The point is that it’s there.” Carrie, Fiona, Ben, Ali, Jamie, Piotr, Glen, Callum, Morag, Jean, the locksmith . . . “Who put it there and when?”

“And who is it?” adds Carrie. “I mean, who was it?”

They both look at me, and I know what they are thinking, because I’m thinking it too, but it’s ludicrous. “It could be anyone. There’s no point in speculating.” My voice sounds brittle. I feel brittle.