He wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Was she planning to go, and soon? He found himself despondent at the thought.

‘What if I keep you captive?’ he said. ‘So that you’re always here, like tonight, waiting for me?’

She smiled. ‘Maybe it’s my turn to tie you up,’ she suggested.

That was something he wouldn’t mind, and he said so.

Greg

Looking out across the lawn at the Party House, he remembered the last time it had been occupied. The bright lights, the laughter, the loud music that had drowned out every true night sound of this magical place.

Back then, there had also been a full moon laying its rays over the green lochan and turning the beach to gold. Steam had been rising from the hot tub, he remembered, and naked bodies running about.

Including his own.

He allowed the memory of that night to take over. Felt himself high and drunk, running across the grass in pursuit of the naked body of Marion. Taking her into the trees.

The memory was so sharp, he could taste her again. Her and all the whisky and champagne he’d consumed that night. Earlier, to his shame, he’d played the gamekeeper for them, kilt and all, just as they’d demanded. Their toy.

Why?

He’d told himself it was to keep his job, and that was half true, but only half.

Perhaps it had been reckless abandon, like a soldier in the midst of war, but this time the enemy had been insidious and invisible as well as deadly.

And always the excuses for himself. Surely they wouldn’t have come here if they were ill with the strain that was even more deadly than the original, especially for children?

But they had come and they had been infectious.

And he had carried the virus from here into Blackrig. The killer they sought tonight in the village hall had most likely been him.

You don’t know that. You were never ill.

‘But I was the only one to come here and mix with them,’ he said into the silence.

His admission of guilt drifted out over the green water and was swallowed by the surrounding trees.

Being at the meeting tonight had simply served to remind him of what he feared the most. That he had been the one to carry the virus into the village. That he, not the estate owners, should be taking the blame.

And so, while Joanne slept, he’d risen and dressed, and walked up here to do – what? Pay penance before the next visitors arrived? Feel sorry for himself rather than for the grieving parents in those first two rows?

He swore under his breath. Maybe he was here out of relief that he had never been found out. Never had to face the consequences of his actions.