By and by, a young lad aged about twelve or so, with seemingly nothing much better to do on a Friday afternoon, bobs along and regards me with curiosity as he picks up pebbles and throws them at the harbour wall.

The pebbles bounce and land here and there. There is no point to his game, only to keep himself entertained for a few minutes while his ma and da finish up their business at the market, or empty their drinks at the Mussel Inn, or whatever they might be doing.

I try to ignore him and continue to look at the harbour. But he edges closer and closer until he is finally a few feet away from me, staring firmly at my throat.

‘That’s a sparkly necklace,’ he says. ‘But what’s that mark on your neck?’ He comes even closer now, the pebbles abandoned. ‘Oi, Missus, are you Half-Hanged Maggie?’ he asks. ‘Only that mark, Missus, it looks like a rope-burn. What happened then, on the gallows? Is it like they say and you woke up in your own coffin at the Sheep Heid Inn, and walked into your own funeral wake and your own family nearly died of fright?’

I turn to him, sighing. ‘I am she,’ I reply. ‘And my story is not for the likes of little lads like you.’

‘A little lad!’ He scoffs at that and pulls himself up to his full height, which is not much. ‘Tell me,’ he begs, and I roll my eyes, for I have heard this question a hundred times or more. ‘Tell me what happens to you, in the afterlife.’

I sigh and shake my head. ‘You will not like the answer,’ I say.

His eyes widen at that.

‘But you must tell me anyway – here, have a shiny pebble.’ He rummages in his pocket and brings out a fine-looking little stone. ‘I don’t have pennies, Missus, but this here shiny stone would look grand in a collection, if you collect such things.’

‘I do not collect stones, for I am not a child,’ I reply gravely, but I am developing a soft spot for the fellow and I suddenly have a terrible hankering for Susanna.

‘Oh, you should,’ he says, sounding dejected. ‘They are free on the beach and look good, all lined up in rows. I have rows of whites, greys, reds and blacks.’

‘Well, carry on making your colourful collection, and I will not take your nice pebble from you.’

‘But you will tell me, won’t you?’ he pleads.

I will.

‘The answer is that all the things that you do in your life come back to you, when you reach your final moments. And you think of all sorts of strange things – of the conversations you never had time to have and of the mistakes you made, but mostly of the people you love. Above all things is love.’