16

We’re back to the Mearnside Hotel (and Spa) for the post-funeral-ceremony cold collation, as it is so charmingly entitled. The old place rises resplendently above its green-smooth lawns, clipped topiary and sculpted, surgeoned trees, its towers and turrets looking like they’re trying to snag the last departing traces of the low cloud, reluctant to let it go. A hazy roll of mist, full banked along the coast, reveals beneath its hem the glowing white waves breaking on the sands in the middle distance, but obscures the sea itself.

Dad and I get here last because we had to drop Mum at her school: hardly en route, but better than trying to take more than one car to the vehicle-unfriendly cemetery. Similar problem here. We have to park on the driveway down to the car park.

‘Aye, bloody good turnout,’ Dad says, loosening his tie as we walk down to the main doors and the usual huddle of smokers. ‘Doubt mine’ll be as packed.’

‘Al, please,’ I say to him.

‘Think I’ll get buried at sea,’ he says gruffly, though he’s grinning.

‘Fine. I’ll expect a discount on the hire of the dredger.’

Dad chuckles wheezily.

*   *   *  

The funereal equivalent of the reception-line thing they do at weddings had been set up at the doors into the rather grand, east-facing, first-floor reception room where the after-funeral drinks and munchies are being dispensed; however, by the time Dad and I arrive the line of mourning Murstons has dispersed, which comes as a mighty relief, though it does mean we’ll need to seek out the family and do something similar impromptu later. For the moment they’re up at the buffet tables, progressing with plates, so probably best to wait a bit.

Anyway, Dad has nipped to the loo. He does this rather often these days, apparently, though he claims to see no need to invoke medical opinion on this new development; Mum’s a lot more worried than he seems to be and has told him she’s going to start timing the intervals between toilet visits if he doesn’t go to the doc’s soon.

I make my way through the reception room; the place is set out with large round tables, laid for a light lunch and busy with people sitting chatting, already stuffing their gobs or still standing socialising. About a dozen staff are bringing tea and coffee and taking orders for drinks, plus the bar near the main doors is open. The Murstons have a reserved table of their own in the centre but everybody else just has to find their own place. The room’s pretty big: a first-floor image of the Mearnside’s main dining room, one storey below.

Ferg inspects me when we meet up in the giant bay window that forms most of the reception room’s eastern edge.

‘If it was beauty sleep you were after last night, I’d ask for your money back.’

‘Good to see you too, Ferg.’ I’m holding a whisky from the welcome table by the doors. Ferg, naturally, has two. ‘Who was that girl you were plying with drinks in the graveyard?’

‘Plying,’ Ferg says thoughtfully. ‘Plying. There’s a word one hears all too seldom these days, don’t you think?’

‘Avoiding the question. There’s a phrase one hears all too freq—’

‘Name’s Charlene. Used to cut what was left of the late Mr Murston Senior’s hair in the local tonsorial emporium. Emotional child. Probably cries after a good fuck. I hope to find out.’

I look round. ‘She still here?’

‘Back to work, but we sort of have a date afterwards, so I’m pacing myself, or will be once the grand behind the bar and the free bottles on the tables run out. Cheers.’

We clink glasses. ‘To Joe,’ I say.

‘Hmm?’

I sigh. ‘The deceased?’

‘Well, absolutely,’ Ferg says. We re-clink. ‘To the late Mr M.’ We knock back a whisky each like it’s cheap vodka. Splendid idea at this time of day on an empty stomach. We stash the empty glasses on the window ledge.

‘So … How was your quiet, or early, night, last night?’ Ferg asks. One of his eyebrows has bowed to an arch; this is almost enough to distract you from what is basically a leer filling the rest of his face.

‘Okay, what?’ I ask.

‘Oh, nothing. A friend said they saw you in El’s car yesterday evening, latish.’

I shake my head. ‘Fuck me,’ I breathe, ‘you get away with nothing in this town.’

‘Yeaah,’ Ferg drawls. ‘Tell that to the lady’s family.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Indeed I do. One reason I left. So?’

‘Experienced a visit from El’s brothers after I left Lee’s place yesterday.’

Ferg nods knowingly. ‘Thought you seemed a bit rattled yesterday, in the Formartine. They rough you up?’

‘A little.’

‘Fuck. I’m amazed you only look as rubbish as you do.’

‘Ta. Ellie heard and came calling just to mess with them.’

‘Retaliation. That the only way you can get a date these days?’

‘Wasn’t a date. We had a very pleasant drive, we talked a lot, she put together some dinner at hers and then drove me home. I was in her car and she was about to drop me off when you rang.’

‘What did you talk about? Anything salacious?’

‘Some interesting stuff; can’t divulge.’

‘Of course not,’ Ferg says, rolling his eyes. ‘You are a sort of bilge of last resort for interesting information, aren’t you, Stewart? You’re like one of these people who offer to accept the kind of chain-letter emails and texts that cretins think it’ll be unlucky to break: gossip gets to you and dies.’

‘One does one’s best,’ I murmur modestly in my best Prince Charles, tugging at a shirt cuff.

‘So you didn’t fuck?’

‘I can neither confirm nor deny—’

‘Oh, for—’

‘But no.’

‘Bodie!’ Dad says, arriving holding a whisky; he transfers it from one hand to the other to shake Ferg’s hand. ‘How’s it hingin?’

‘Little left of true, as usual, Stewart’s dad,’ Ferg says. Dad looks at him, puzzled. ‘Please call me Ferg, Al,’ Ferg asks.

Dad laughs. ‘What you two hatching? Looked deep in conversation there.’

‘Ferg is far too shallow to have a deep conversation with,’ I tell Dad.

‘Your son hits the nail on the cuticle as ever, Al,’ Ferg says with a sigh. ‘I’m only deep on the surface. Inside, I’m shallow to the core.’

‘Thank you, friend of Dorothy. Parker,’ I say, smiling.

Al sports a tolerant frown. ‘Okay,’ he says, tapping Ferg on one elbow. ‘I’m going to leave you two to it. Stewart; couple of minutes, then we’ll go over to pay our respects, aye?’

‘Sure thing, Paw.’

‘Okay; I’ll be over at Mike and Sue’s table. See you, Bodie,’ he calls as he turns away.

‘Cheers, Mr G,’ Ferg says, then swivels back to me. ‘So, how do things stand between you and Ellie?’

‘They stand erect, Ferg. Actually, they don’t; they more … recline.’ He looks at me. ‘You were expecting a straight answer, Bodie?’

Ferg looks at me for a bit longer, then finishes his second whisky. ‘You know, we ought to eat something. I mean, we ought to drink something, too, but we should line our stomachs or we could suffer later.’

‘You may have a point.’

‘Shall we to the groaning buffet tables?’

‘Yes, I suppose we—’

‘Stewart,’ a deep, purposeful voice says. ‘Ferg.’

‘Pow, hello,’ Ferg says, shaking the impressive mitt of Powell Imrie as he arrives to loom over us. Another visitor. My, we’re popular, or at least conspicuous. Teach us to stand in the middle of the window recess.

Dressed in formal black, Powell looks even more like a high-class bouncer than usual. He even stands – once he’s shaken our hands – with his hands clasped just above his crotch. Powell has a way of looking at a person – a sort of polite but tight, You still here? smile – that works on all known types of human.

Ferg takes the hint, holds my upper arm briefly. ‘See you at the comestibles.’

Powell watches him go, turns back to me. ‘Heard Murd and Norrie came to see you yesterday.’

‘That’s right,’ I agree.

‘You okay?’

‘Fine.’

‘Wasn’t anything to do with me, just want you to know that.’

‘Didn’t think it was, Powell.’

He glances smoothly round towards the centre of the room and the Murston family table. ‘I’ve had a wee word. Shouldn’t happen again,’ he says. And, as he says it, I completely believe him. Then, after a short pause, he adds, ‘… Aye.’

And just the way he says this – says that single, innocent-sounding, seemingly affirmative little word – suddenly it’s like there’s this sliver of fear sliding deep inside me. Powell glanced over at the Murston table again as he pronounced the word and there’s something about both his voice and his body language that shrieks uncertainty, even worry.

‘Thanks,’ I tell him. I think my voice sounds hollow, but Powell doesn’t seem to notice.

‘Just don’t mention it to Mr M, eh?’

‘Wouldn’t dream of,’ I tell him.

Powell is smiling. It’s a good, believable smile; I’m already starting to convince myself I was reading far too much into a single word.

‘Aye. Right.’ He nods sideways. ‘You coming over to say hello?’

‘Just about to; Al and I missed the receiving line at the start – taking Mum back to her school. We were waiting for people to finish their food.’

‘Ah, they’re mostly just picking. Apart from the boys, of course. Come on over.’

‘Be with you momentarily.’

‘Hunky McDory,’ Powell says, nodding. ‘See you shortly.’

He heads off, still smiling. I’m thinking I definitely need to be a bit less fucking paranoid. I go to the buffet, right behind Ferg, pick up a sausage roll and stuff it in my mouth. ‘Off to pay my respects,’ I tell him, with a degree of flakiness.

Ferg has assembled an impressive plateful. ‘Okay. Play nice with the big boys.’

I go to get Dad, say hi to Mike Mac, Sue and Phelpie, and cheek-kiss Jel. She looks … very controlled. A girl with a tight rein on herself. I’m sort of getting inevitable resonances about this place and this occasion, this size of gathering; maybe they’re getting to Jel, too. However, I think I can guarantee that she and I will not be getting up to any toilet-cubicle-related shenanigans, not this time.

Al and I head to the Murston table.

‘Will I do the talking?’ he asks quietly, en route.

‘Fine by me,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll speak if I’m spoken to.’

The three brothers are wolfing into seconds and Mrs M is staring into a small mirror, reapplying make-up when we arrive. Donald has seen us coming and stands to shake our hands stiffly, formally. There are a few aunts and uncles and some older relatives I recognise from family occasions way back. I stand like Powell did, hands over lower belly, a little back from where Dad is, and nod when any of this lot catch my eye; they look away again quickly if they do.

‘Aye, well,’ Dad’s saying, ‘a good innings, like they say south of the border, but still before his time, eh? He’ll be missed. He’ll be missed.’

Mrs M reaches out and holds onto Dad’s forearm, gripping it. ‘Thanks, Alastair. Thanks.’

She doesn’t look at me. The two junior brothers do. Murdo is calmly ignoring me, eating onwards, but Fraser and Norrie, ties pulled loose by now and just generally not appearing too comfortable in their best suits, are trying hard not to glower over-obviously in my direction. Still, their plates beckon invitingly before them and I’d give it thirty seconds at most before the call of the nosh consumes their full attention. Norrie must have sculpted his beard for the occasion, limiting it to a centimetre-wide strip like a strap down the sides of his face and under his jaw. It’s not a good look. Fraser has a fairly full beard these days, much like the one Murdo used to have, though redder.

Ellie’s watching me, a small, sad smile on her face.

Sort of beside her – there’s an empty chair in between them that I suspect is Powell’s – Grier is using her veil to good effect, not shifting her head but her gaze darting round the important players at the table, concentrating on her dad – back to grimly shaking Al’s hand as they trade platitudes about old Joe’s general wonderfulness – Ellie and me. At least I think that’s what she’s doing; the veil does make it hard to be sure.

Ellie rises elegantly, moves to me – all eyes round the table and quite a few throughout the room on her now – and leans in, one hand lightly on my wrist, to touch cheeks. ‘Double kiss,’ she whispers on that first pass, so we do the continental double-kiss thing. I have no idea what the hell this signifies in the Murston family bestiary of acceptable greetings and other physical gestures: just not being marked out for imminent execution after an overnight change of heart, I hope.

‘Very sorry about Joe,’ I mumble, which is the best I can do.

She nods and smiles a little and sits down again, smoothing her skirt under her. I think I see Grier sort of gathering herself to maybe get up too, but Ellie leans over to her just then and says something to her. Looks light, inconsequential – El pats her little sister’s hand gently, affectionately – but … good timing there, girl, I think, if that was deliberate.

Dad seems to be addressing the whole table now. ‘I’m sorry Morven – that’s my wife’ – he explains for the benefit of the far-flung rellies – ‘couldn’t take any more time off after the funeral, but we all’ – he extends one arm a fraction to include me here –‘want you to know we’re very sorry for your loss. A good man gone, and he’ll be sorely missed.’

Al nods a couple of times, then nods once more to Donald, who nods back, and we’re out of there at last, turning as one and heading away from this uncannily calm eye of the room.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding.

‘I better get back to work,’ Al tells me, near the doors. He holds my elbow briefly. ‘You take it easy, chief, okay?’

‘Aye-aye, sir.’

‘No. Seriously, son.’

‘Seriously aye-aye, Dad. I’ll be fine.’

‘Aye, well, get some food down you and don’t stay too long.’

‘Will do, Pop.’

Dad gives me a very slightly dubious look, then departs.

Ferg is loitering by the end of the buffet table, filling his face and eyeing the desserts. I lift a sticky cocktail sausage from his plate.

‘Get your own, you freeloading bastard, Gilmour.’

‘Intend to.’ I inspect the sausage, eat a chunk and put it back on his plate. ‘But then we should get drunk.’

‘Back on-message at last. About time.’ He nods at the half-eaten sausage. ‘I’m still going to eat that, you know.’

*   *   *  

I’m sitting minding my own business and tucking into my own plateful of food five minutes later at a half-empty table – I don’t recognise the other people – when a jolly-looking, well-upholstered lady with frizzy grey hair and wearing a dark-plum suit sits down beside me. Another half-remembered face.

‘Stewart, how you doing? You probably don’t remember me. Joan Linton. How you doing yourself, son? Oh, it’s awful good to see you again, so it is. Is it London you’ve been away to all this time? Aye? London? Aye? I’m sorry, here I am, blabbering away to you and you trying to get some food down you, I know; what am I like? A couple of Bristol Creams and I’m yacking away fifteen to the dozen. It’s that good food, though, isn’t it? D’you not think so? Wait till you try the desserts. Oh my God! I’ve had seconds, twice. I’ll be bursting out of this dress, I will! No, but, seriously, it’s a lovely send-off, is it no? They’ve done the old guy proud. Not think so? I didn’t really know old Joe that well, to be honest, but you can’t know everybody, can you?’

I’ve been waving my hand at my face during all this, trying to indicate that the only thing stopping me from answering – or at least attempting to interrupt – is the fact that I’ve got a mouth full of food, which I have, though this has also been a good way of giving myself time to try to remember who Mrs Linton actually is. How do I know her?

‘Mrs L,’ I say, swallowing. ‘Course. Was meaning to come over and say hi,’ I lie. ‘How are you?’

‘Oh, me? I’m great, I’m great, I’m firing on all cylinders, I am. Alan’s the same. Well, he had a wee heart thing last year and took a while off work but he’s fine now. Hardly slowed down at all. Taken up golf. Doctor told him to. Practically an order. I said, Can you get the green fees on prescription, then? But of course that’s just me having a wee joke, I’m no that daft! Anyway, here’s me stopping you enjoying your meal, I just wanted to pop over and say it’s great to see you again, so it is, it really is, and you’re looking lovely! Don’t you mind me saying that now, because you have, you’ve turned into a very handsome young man, you have. And it’s just a lovely thing to see. And I just wanted to say that I’m awful sorry about what happened. I’m not making excuses for anybody, I would never do that, but if it hadn’t been for those bloody cameras – excuse my language, but those bloody cameras – it might all have been totally different. It could, couldn’t it? And I’m not, like I say, I’m not making excuses for anybody, but we all know we’re none of us perfect and I thought it was very harsh on you, very harsh, that’s all I’m going to say. I’ve said to Alan umpteen times we should never have done that – who wants to look at a load of kids’ photies anyway? But of course he says it was actually our Katy’s idea and she says it was one of her daft friends – oh, we’re a terrible family for passing the buck, we are! – but it was us paid for the bloody things and Alan who showed those stupid photographs on the big screen and I know he’s felt bad about it ever since, even though he didn’t know and it was just bad luck. He’d apologise himself but he’s too embarrassed. No me; I don’t embarrass easily at all, but that’s what I wanted to say, is that okay? So I’m sorry, honey, you get on with your lunch there and I’ll just make myself scarce, okay? Those wee sausages are just the best, are they no? Must have had a dozen! Right, I better go. You look after yourself, Stewart, say hi to your mum and dad.’

‘Yeah, be seeing you,’ I manage, with a sort of strangled heartiness, as she retreats, waving.

Mrs Linton. Mother of Drew, of Drew-and-Lauren fame, the couple at whose wedding reception Jel and I slightly anticipated the happy couple’s traditional wedding-night activities, five years ago, in – why! – this very hotel.

Shame she didn’t think to have a natter with me or Jel on that occasion; we’d never have found the time to get up to our extracurricular misbehaviour.

‘He had this story about him and his pals coming back from the pub in Inioch each Sunday night. This was back when you had to be what they called a bona fide traveller to get a drink anywhere on a Sunday, like? And—’

‘Eh?’

‘No, seriously, you couldnae get a drink where you lived; you had to go to the next village or town or whatever, if it was a Sunday. It was the law. Anyways—’

‘Jeez.’

‘Ah know.’

I’ve drifted towards a crowd of people standing near the bar. The Murston brothers are reminiscing about old Joe, and Murdo has decided to tell a story.

‘Anyways,’ he says, supping quickly from his pint, ‘Joe and all his mates would hoof it over Whitebit Hill from – where was it, Fraze?’

‘Logie of Hurnhill.’

‘Aye, Logie—’

‘Probably The Ancraime Arms,’ Fraser adds. ‘That’s where they’d go to, probably.’

Murdo nods. ‘Right. Aye. Anyways, so they’d go past the old Whitebit Hill cemetery, which was fu even then and no really used, an it’s got this big wa all roon it and this pair a big iron gates right on the road – an there’s nothin else there, like, no back then, like, no buildins or nuthin, just the cemetery an some trees. And one o old Joe’s mates had this sorta tradition thing he’d always do when they all went past the cemetery; he’d stick his hand through the cemetery gates and he’d offer to shake hands with any ghosts or zombies or undead wandering aboot the place or whatever, right? Just for a laugh, right? An like he’d shoot oot, “Come on, ghoulies, ghosties, shake ma haun,” aye? And they’d all have a laugh at this, every week, cos of course they’re all pished, aye? Anyway, this one night, old Joe leaves the pub before the rest, saying he’s no feelin too good, like maybe he’s had one too many or eaten a bad crisp or somethin an needs the fresh air, so he’s like oot the door ten minutes early an awa doon the road. Only what he’s done is, he’s been an louped over the cemetery wa earlier in the day with this bucket o watter and he’s left—’

‘Naw, I think he tolt me he just foon the bucket there, Murd.’

‘Norrie, d’you mind? Anyway, he’s got this bucket of watter at the side of the gates, on the inside like, so he’s ower the wa, hunkered down there, inside the cemetery, waitin for his pals, and what he does is, he sticks his haun in the bucket o watter? Like, rolls up his sleeve an sticks his mitt in there up to like the elbow or whatever, like? An he’s like this for five minutes or ten or somehin.’

Norrie whistles. ‘That’d be fucken cold.’

Fraser nods. ‘Aye, ah think this was like the winter, too, he told me.’

Murdo gulps more beer. ‘Anyways; winter, summer, whatever, he’s like this for five or ten minutes with his haun gettin colder and colder an then he hears his pals comin doon the road, and does his pal no do whit he always does, an stick his hand through the cemetery gates, offerin to shake hauns with the deid? So Joe takes his haun – which is, like, totally freezin noo – and he grabs the hand o his pal, and gets it really tight and gives it a good fuckin hard shake. An of course there’s nae lights on the road then or anyhin, an he cannae be seen cos he’s in the shadows anyway an still behind the wa? Well, of course his pal screams like a fucken lassie and lamps aff doon the road, screamin blue murder and pishin his breeks, an Joe’s laughin so hard he’s nearly doin the same thing.’

An his mates,’ Norrie butts in, ’cos did he no tell them, like? ‘Murd? Did he no tell them he was goin to do this fore he left the pub, aye?’

‘Anyways, his mates have to help Joe oot the cemetery cos his hand’s so cold he can hardly climb an they’re all laughin so much. An this guy – cannae remember his name – never sticks his haun through the cemetery gates again, even after they tell him it was just Joe. But, eh? Eh? Kind a guy he was. What a guy, eh?’ Murdo shakes his head in admiration and sups his pint.

We’re all laughing, forming a ring of hilarity around Murdo, whose big, beaming, ruddy face is grinning widely. Some of the laughter is a little forced, a little by rote, because of who Murdo is and the family he’s part of, but mostly it’s genuine. And I’m laughing, too, though not as much as I might be.

‘Ah’m tellin ye!’ Murdo says, loudly, looking around the faces clustered around him, soaking up the approval and general good humour. His gaze even slides over where I stand, on the periphery of the crowd, without his happy, open expression changing. Probably didn’t recognise me. ‘Ah’m tellin ye!’ he says again.

I sip towards the dregs of my pint. Yes, you are telling us, Murd.

Only that’s not the way old Joe told it to me. When he told me this story it wasn’t about him personally at all; it was about one of his uncles who’d played this trick on one of his pals, years before Joe was remotely old enough to go drinking with his mates anywhere. The rest of the story’s similar enough, but it just never was about Joe himself.

I am so tempted to point this out – I really want to point this out – but I don’t. It’s cowardice, partly, maybe, but also just a reluctance to, well, throw a bucket of cold water over this warm wee festival of rosy-tinged remembrance. It irks me that history’s being rewritten like this, but if I say something now I’ll just look like the bad guy. I guess if Mr M was here he might set the record straight, but he’s not; Donald’s standing by the Murston table, talking to a couple of local businessmen. Best to keep quiet. In the end, after all, what does it really matter?

Only it always matters. I’m still not going to say anything, but it always matters, and I feel like a shit for not sticking up for the truth, no matter how much of a spoilsport or a pedant I might appear because of it. I finish my pint, turn away.

‘Aw, Stu? Stewart?’ Murdo calls out. I turn, surprised, to find that Murdo’s looking at me, as is everybody else, and a sort of channel through the crowd has opened between me and Murd. ‘You knew Joe a bit, did you no?’

‘Aye,’ I say. Nonplussed, frankly. ‘Aye, we used to go on the occasional hill-walk together. Aye, nice old guy.’

I’m horribly aware I’m sounding trite and slightly stupid, and I’m sort of lowering my conversational style down to Murdo’s level, almost imitating him. (I almost said ‘thegether’ instead of ‘together’, for example, body-swerving the more colloquial word so late in the brain-to-mouth process I came close to stumbling over it.) And was he a nice old guy? He was pleasant to me and kind enough, but he was still a Murston – the senior Murston – at a time when the family was settling deeper and deeper into its criminal ways, abandoning farming and even land deals, and diversifying into still more lucrative fields.

‘Must have taught you a thing or two, aye?’ Murdo prompts. ‘Cannae get everythin from a university education, eh no?’

‘Nup,’ I agree. ‘Sure can’t. Aye, he let drop the occasional pearl of wisdom.’

‘Aw aye?’ Murdo says, looking round with a smug look.

Fuck, I’m on the spot here. Since I saw his body in the funeral parlour a couple of days ago I’ve been trying to think of something wise or profound Joe said, and there’s really only one thing I can remember. Plus I feel like I’m kind of embellishing and improving the memory as I try to recall it, a process I’m pretty much bound to continue if I try to articulate it now.

Still, it’s all I’ve got, and – assuming that Murdo isn’t trying to fuck me up here, believing I’ve got nothing and so expecting me to embarrass myself – maybe this invitation to take part in the rolling familial obituary for the old guy is sort of like a peace offering. Maybe.

So I clear my throat and say, ‘Yeah, he said something once about … about how one of the main mistakes people make is thinking that everybody else is basically like they are themselves.’

‘That right?’ Murd says.

Joe really did say something like this, and even at the time I thought it might be one of the more useful bits of geezer lore he’d offer up. Not that we really expect to hear any great wisdom from the old these days; things move too fast, and society, reality itself, alters so rapidly that any lesson one generation learns has generally become irrelevant by the time the next one comes along. Some things will stay the same – never call on lower than two tens, men tend to be unfaithful – but a lot don’t.

‘Yeah,’ I say, looking around, talking to the whole group now though still glancing mostly towards Murdo. ‘He said that conservatives – right-wing people in general – tend to think everybody’s as nasty ’ well, as selfish – deep down, as they are. Only they’re wrong. And liberals, socialists and so on think everybody else is as nice, basically, as they themselves are. They’re wrong too. The truth is messier.’ I shrug. ‘Usually is.’ I spread my arms a little, and smile in what I hope is a self-deprecating manner. ‘Sorry; not as good a story as Murdo’s there.’ I sort of raise my glass towards Murdo, hating myself for it.

There’s a gentle breeze of sympathetic laughter around the group.

‘What was that story about them in that cesspit at the farm that time?’ Norrie says, and I’m able to slip away as people refocus on the three brothers again.

‘Aw, aye,’ Murdo says as the crowd clusters back around him once more, and he launches into another story.

‘Katy, isn’t it?’

‘Hiya.’

‘Hi. I’m Stewart.’

‘Hi … Oh. Yeah, of course. Hi. How you doing?’

‘I’m fine. Can I refresh that for you?’

‘Yeah, sure.’

‘The white, aye?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘Lucky I happen to have a bottle right here, then.’

‘That’s very prepared.’

‘Isn’t it?’

*   *   *  

‘Stewart,’ Jel says.

I’m back at the buffet tables, looking at the puddings and trying to decide if I’m remotely hungry or just being greedy. My organs differ in their opinions; however, I think I’m going to go with whatever one’s telling me I’m already completely full up.

‘We’re going,’ she tells me, putting one hand on my forearm, ‘but there’s a few people been invited back to the house later. Feel free, okay?’

‘Thanks. I might. How … how exclusive we talking – all invited?’

‘Well, no randoms, but otherwise bring who you like.’ She looks back into the room. ‘Saw you with Katy Linton there,’ she says, one eyebrow raised. ‘Little young for you, isn’t she?’

‘Young, but she knows things.’

‘Does she now?’

‘You’d be amazed.’

‘You think? Takes a lot to amaze me these days.’

‘Anyway, she’s twenty, twenty-one. But I wasn’t thinking of her when I was asking who I could bring.’

‘Ellie?’ Jel says, and her voice drops a little even as she tries to look unconcerned.

‘I was thinking more of Ferg.’

‘Okay. I’ll make sure the more valuable booze has been padlocked.’

‘I’ll call if we’re coming.’

‘Do. You back down south tomorrow?’

‘Yep.’

‘Let’s try meet up, like, anyway? Before you go? See you.’ She dives in with a small cheek kiss, turns and goes.

I’m at the bar, getting a pint for myself, plus one for Ferg and a large whisky too – he’s been keeping an eye on the bar over the last hour and he’s worried the thousand-pound float might be about to run out.

‘Stewart,’ Ellie says, slipping in beside me at the bar. She puts some empty glasses down, instantly catches the barman’s eye and adds a mineral water to my order.

‘Hey, Ellie.’ She’s looking at the three drinks. ‘Two are for Ferg,’ I explain.

‘Of course. Let me give you a hand.’

I smile at her, trying – out of the corners of my eyes – to see where Donald might be, or any of the Murston brothers. ‘We okay to be seen together?’ I ask.

‘I’m making it okay,’ she says, and lifts the whisky glass.

We wind our way through the press round the bar, heading for Ferg, back in prime position in the centre of the giant bay window.

‘So. How did it go for you guys?’ I ask Ellie.

‘Bearable,’ she tells me. She glances at a slim black watch on her wrist. ‘I’m taking Mum back home in a minute. Let me get out of these sepulchral threads.’

‘You look great. Black suits you.’

‘Yeah? Well, I feel like one of those sack-of-potatoes Greek grannies you see on the islands who look like they were born widowed.’

‘I guess comfort trumps being drop-dead gorgeous at a funeral.’

‘Steady.’

‘What are your plans after?’

‘Ha!’ Ellie says, and gives a sort of shoulders-in shudder. ‘Supposed to be a private party at the house for the rellies but I’m going to absent myself; bound to turn into a giant piss-up for Don and the boys and I’ve had enough of those.’ She looks round as we approach Ferg, who’s talking to a girl I half recognise. ‘Might come back here,’ she says. ‘Could even have a drink; leave the car. If there’s people still going to be around.’

‘That might depend on the life expectancy of the “free” component of the phrase “free bar”.’

‘I asked five minutes ago; barely over the halfway point.’

‘Blimey. I can tell Ferg to slow down.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Really, only halfway?’

‘Less than six hundred. People never drink as much as they think they do at these things, even at the Mearnside’s prices. Though Don gets a discount, naturally.’

‘Give it time. Hey, Ferg.’ I hand him his pint; Ellie presents his whisky.

‘Thank you, Stewart. And Ellie. Well, gosh, this is like old times.’

‘And how are you, Ferg?’ Ellie asks.

‘Oh, radiant. You know Alicia?’ Ferg indicates the girl he’s been talking to, a compact lass with a rather round face but fabulous long wavy red hair. Alicia is the daughter of one of the town councillors in attendance. I think Ferg is trying to flirt with her, but he’s just coming across as smarmy.

‘Don’t you have a hair appointment later?’ I ask him.

Ferg looks confused in what I decide is an insolent, What-are-you-talking-about-you-idiot? way, so I choose not to pursue the point. There’s some very so-whattish chat for a couple of minutes, then Ellie says she better be going; a mum to drop at the house.

‘You be here later?’ she says as she passes.

‘Yup.’

I watch for them going and it’s a good ten minutes before she and Mrs M make it to the doors and out, delayed by people wanting to say thanks for the do and how sorry they are.

A couple of minutes after that, as more people come to join us and the talk gets a little louder, I leave my half-finished pint on the window ledge and announce to no one in particular that I’m off for a pee.

There’s something I want to do before I get too pissed. And before Ellie gets back, though my reasons for feeling that way are opaque even to me.

Having already established that the lifts no longer ascend as far as the fifth floor, I take what might look like an honest-mistake-stylee wrong turn out of the loos, check the corridor for emptiness – it is satisfactorily full of it – then barge through double doors and, chortling at my own cleverness, head smartly up a service stairwell to the fifth floor.

Where I encounter a set of locked doors. Extraordinarily, even purposeful shaking doesn’t open them.

I go down to the fourth floor and the main stairs, prepared to be as brazen as you like regarding the dispensation of nods, hellos and so ons, but there’s nobody to be seen. More locked doors at the fifth; the lack of lit stairwell above the fourth floor might well have been a sign.

I head back downstairs a second time, mooch inconspicuously all the way along to the furthest service stairwell, ascend that, only to find more locked doors, then go down to the fourth floor – again; we’re becoming old friends, this fourth-floor corridor and me – take the exterior fire exit (bright outside, sea breeze; air’s bracing) and head up the fire escape towards the fifth, only to be stopped by the locked grille of a door halfway up. I look round, as though appealing to the white scraps that are circling gulls and the wispy remains of clouds.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ I mutter.

I button up my jacket and jump nimbly onto the hand railing, trusting to my childhood superpowers of Having a Head for Heights and Being Quite Good at Climbing.

I ignore the twenty-metre drop to the concrete at the back of the hotel, checking only to make sure there isn’t anybody looking. There isn’t; in the winter you’d be hung out to dry up here, easily visible by anyone watching from the exclusive new development of villas and timeshares that is Mearnside Heights, but, as it’s barely autumn, the gently rustling mass of foliage on the trees, spreading across the slope above the hotel – and Spa, shields me from any prying gaze. Oh, look; there’s the new Spa wing. Uh-huh. Undistinguished, frankly.

I swing round the obstructing wing of metalwork and jump neatly onto the little landing beyond. I shake my head at the lock securing the door. Is it even legal to lock a fire escape, no matter that the floor it serves is never occupied? What if people need to get to the roof? Anyway.

Still no entry to be gained from the exterior fire-escape doors at the end of the fifth-floor corridor. Well, pooh-ee to that.

I give in and do what I should have done at the start. I make my way back down to the ground floor and Reception, sweet-talk one of the receptionists and then the junior manager – possibly leaving the latter with the impression that I just want to revisit the site of an old conquest, mw-ah-ha-ha – then take the middle service stair to the fifth floor and let myself in.

The lights don’t work. They might have mentioned this.

I use the torch function on the rubbish phone: not as good as the iPhone’s. The wan, ghostly, white-screen light guides me along through the darkness of the deserted fifth-floor corridor to the offending toilet.

The place feels cold and gloomy, lit only by the phone and the watery light filtering through the etched glass of the single window. The green floral curtains that preserved the modesty of the undersink plumbing have gone, as have any towels and toilet rolls. The cubicles stand empty, doors open. I gently close the door of the middle one as far as it’ll go, which is about seven-eighths to fully.

I wait patiently while the rubbish phone sorts itself out to upload email, then I negotiate the clunky interface to find the attachment I sent myself from Al’s computer. I open up the photo of the red gloves. I take out the copy I printed earlier this morning too, comparing images. I reluctantly concede the phone’s image is the more useful even though it’s smaller, and put the print away.

So I stand there, looking up at the top of the middle cubicle’s door and holding the phone up and out and then closer to and further in, trying to get everything aligned.

There’s no problem with the photos taken from under the sinks, from beneath the curtain. Any kid could have taken them; so could any adult, prepared to stoop so low.

It’s this one, the one featuring the pair of red satin gloves hoisted ecstatically (if I may make so immodest) above the cubicle door, that poses credibility problems.

I squat on my heels, shoulders resting against the surface supporting the three sinks, but that doesn’t work. Nothing fits until I’m standing upright, the image – and, by implication, the camera that took it – at about adult head height. I turn and look down at the formica surface I’m resting against. I suppose a kid could have jumped up onto this and got the angle that way. Though in that case … they’d be even higher than I can plausibly hold the camera here. They might even have stayed standing on the floor but held the camera as high as they could, and trusted to luck … Maybe even that, plus jump and snap at the same time.

Except you wouldn’t expect a kid to do that. And Jel’s arms/ hands were raised like they are in the photo only for a few seconds, max. (I remember; they came down to grasp me, hard, at the nape of my neck, immediately afterwards.) So not much time for a wee person to spot the gesture and scramble up here to take the relevant shot. Though of course some of the kids with cameras weren’t so small; a few were maybe ten or eleven: straw-thin beanpoles who looked like they’d fall over if you sneezed too close to them, but already maybe eighty per cent as tall as they’d be as adults. Maybe one of them could have stretched to the required height …

Oh well. I take a few photos with the rubbish phone; it insists on using flash. In my head these count as evidence somehow, though probably only in my head.

Altogether, nothing that would stand up in court, Your Honour, but pretty flipping suspicious if you ask me, and it’s me that’s doing the asking, so I ask myself and sure enough my self says, Yeah, pretty fucking suspicious, right enough, matey boy.

I pocket the phone, take a last, sad, nostalgic, slightly despairing look at the relevant toilet-bowl seat, then exit, pad along the gloomy corridor and walk slowly, thoughtfully back down to Reception, returning the keys with a smiling, borderline-unctuous Thank you.

‘Where the fuck have you been?’ Ferg asks.

‘I could tell you,’ I tell him, ‘but then I’d have to cut you dead.’

‘Hnn. Needs work.’

I go to walk past a table where Phelpie is sitting playing on a Gameboy while a couple of intense-looking boys spectate. The boys are maybe just pre-teenage and look uncomfortable in their slightly too-big suits. Phelpie finishes whatever level he’s playing on – it’s some dark, monstery, shooty game I don’t recognise – with a series of deft twists and a flurry of control taps, then hands the device back to one of the kids, who is obviously, if reluctantly, impressed. Phelpie stands up, saying, ‘There you go. Easy, really.’

‘Aye, ta,’ the first boy says, sitting down, while the other kid draws up another seat and they both hunch over.

‘Aw, hi, Stu,’ Phelpie says with a grin when he sees me.

‘That was quite neat,’ I tell him.

Aye, well,’ Phelpie says, grinning. He looks a little drunk for once, which makes such reaction-time-critical gameplay even more impressive.

‘How come you don’t play cards that fast?’

Phelpie shrugs. ‘No money involved. Just a game.’

‘Phelpie, come on; it’s just a few quid. You never bet big, and you’re not short of a bob or two.’

Phelpie stretches, interlaces his splayed fingers, then cracks his knuckles. He has an even bigger grin on his face. ‘Truth is, Stu,’ he says, ‘I just like listening to the guys talk.’

‘What?’ My first thought is that Phelpie means he wants to get people talking off-guard so they’ll spill some beans that might be useful for Mike Mac’s business dealings.

Aye,’ he says, slowly, as though this is only just occurring to him as he speaks. ‘We play too fast sometimes, d’you no think? I mean, we’re there to play the game, right enough, but … it’s no why we’re really there, is it? I mean, you could just play on-line sitting in yer underpants, know what I mean? We’re there to have a chat, have a laugh, just be with our pals an that, eh? But I just think the guys can get a bit too intense with the betting and the money and that, sometimes, so I just sort of like to slow things up a wee bit. The craic improves. I’m no razor wit maself, like, but I love listening to the likes of Ferg an that, know what I mean?’

‘Kinda,’ I say, looking on Phelpie with a degree of respect – albeit slightly grudging and even still a little suspicious – I wouldn’t have expected to be exhibiting five minutes ago.

‘Ye’ve no tae tell the rest, though, eh?’ he says, winking at me. ‘Dinnae want them gettin self-conscious or that, eh no?’

‘Aye, cannae be having that,’ I agree. I make a mental note to be very careful indeed if I ever end up in a head-to-head with Phelpie over serious money.

‘See you later, Stu,’ Phelpie says, and wanders off.

I try to get a word with Grier a couple of times, but at the same time I don’t want to just rock up to the Murston table, not with the Surly Brothers using it as their base for expeditions to the bar and with the disapproving relations in attendance.

The third time, in the corridor just outside the function room, Grier looks like she’s going to walk right past me again, ignoring me, even after a perfectly audible, ‘Grier?’

I wonder if she saw me talking to Katy Linton?

I step in front of her; she almost collides with me. She frowns, makes to go past. ‘Stu, do you mind?’

I block her again. ‘Grier—’

She tries to get past me again. ‘Get out the—’

‘Grier, can we—’

‘No, we can’t. Will you stop—’ She stands still, hands on hips for a moment, glaring at me, then tries to slip past to my right. I grab her wrist, already knowing this is a mistake.

‘Fuck off!’ she hisses, shaking my grip off.

‘What do you think you’re doing, Gilmour?’

Shit; it’s Fraser, right behind me, hand on my shoulder, turning me around. I’m half expecting his other hand to ball into a fist and come round-housing up into my face, or sweep in towards my belly. My head cranes back on my neck and my stomach muscles tense without me even consciously willing such desperate preparations.

However, Fraser isn’t quite at that stage yet. He looks close to it, though; his face is redder than his beard, he’s a bit sweaty and he has a slightly crouched, boxerish stance, like he’s just ready for a fight. Grier gets past me, looks like she’s about to continue on her way down the corridor, then stops, stands, arms folded, glaring at both of us.

‘Eh?’ Fraser asks, when I don’t reply immediately. ‘What the fuck’s goin on, eh?’

‘Nothing, Frase,’ I tell him.

‘You okay, Gree?’ he asks her.

‘Fine,’ she says.

‘This arsehole givin you grief?’

‘I wasn’t—’ I start.

‘No. Let’s just—’

‘Cos I’m just the boy to give him some back.’ Fraser rubs a meaty hand through his thin auburn beard like he’s trying to work out how best to start dismantling me.

‘Don’t,’ Grier says. ‘I can look after myself.’

‘Look—’ I begin.

‘Naw, it’d be a pleasure,’ Fraser says, smiling thinly at me. ‘This shite’s tried to coorie in with Callum, then Joe, then Ellie; bout time he was taught a lesson.’

Grier takes his arm, starts to pull him away. ‘Let’s go back to the table.’

‘What if I don’t want to—’

‘Come on, Fraser, see me back,’ she says, pulling harder on his arm.

‘Aye, well,’ Fraser says, and really does do that shrugging inside the suit thing, like he’s making sure his shoulders fit inside there. He takes one step away, then he’s back in my face while Grier’s still tugging at him.

‘One fucking day, Gilmour,’ he says quietly, close enough for me to smell beer and smoke and whisky off him. ‘One fucking day.’ He wags a finger in my face as Grier pulls him away.

Slightly shaken, I return to the room. I sit down and say hi to a whole table of people I vaguely recall from school. They seem to remember me better than I remember them, which ought to feel flattering but instead feels embarrassing. One of the girls, the cute one with short black hair, looks at me like we might have once shared a moment but for the life of me I can’t recall either her name or the incident. Besides, she looks far too young. Hopefully just a false alarm, then; there are enough ghosts of misdemeanours past haunting this pile.

I head for the bar. My hands were shaking for a bit there but I think I can trust myself to hold a drink again without spilling it.

The bar staff must all be on a fag break or something. I turn my back on the bar for a moment, draw in a deep, clearing breath and take a good look round the place as the numbers start to thin out a little.

There must be some critical density of crowd that lets you see the most; too many people and all you can see is whoever’s right next to you; too few and you’ll see mostly walls, tables: just stuff. The population of people remaining in the room has probably approached whatever that ideal concentration is, and I take the opportunity to look about them.

All the local worthies, all the important people in town, are either still here or on their way out or not long departed. No schemies, no junkies, no crack whores, probably nobody unemployed or who genuinely has to worry about being out on the streets in any sense over the coming winter. Just the nice folk, those of the comfy persuasion. High proportion of sole owners, partners – junior or otherwise – shareholders, execs and professionals. People who don’t have to worry too much even in these financially straitened times. Well, how nice for us all.

Doesn’t make us bad people, Stewart …

Well, no, and we will continue to look after ourselves and to some extent those around us, in concentrically less caring levels and circles as our attention and urge to care is attenuated. The inverse square law of compassion.

But still not good enough. Not ambitious enough, not generous and optimistic enough. Too prepared to settle, overly inclined to do as we’re told, pathetically happy to accept the current dogma, that’s us. My parents wouldn’t lie to me; the holy man told me; my teacher said; look, according to this here Bumper Book of Middle Eastern Fairy Stories …

Ah, I think. I’ve got to this stage of drunkenness. Usually requires a lot of drink and just the right mix of other drugs, though I’m sure when I was younger it could be brought on with alcohol alone. It’s a feeling of encompassing, godlike scrutiny, of mountaintop scope and reach, of eagle-like inspection, though without quite the same eye to subsequent predation. And I don’t want to be noticed; it’s not, Behold me, wretches! It’s more, Fuck, behold you; what are you like?

Comes with a high degree of preparedness to use mightily broad-sweep judgements, applied with eye-watering rapidity, to condemn or dismiss entire swathes of humanity and its collected wisdom, up to and including all of it. So, not for those deficient in sanctimony or lacking in self-righteousness; definitely not for the faint or smug.

I have stood in gatherings far more opulent and distinguished, more monied and glamorous, in London and elsewhere – though mostly in London – and felt something of the same corrupted disdain for those around me. It’s a fine, refreshingly cynical feeling in a way, and one that I know separates me from so many of my peers – in all this clasping, cloying pressure to accept and agree, a few of us will always pop out like pips, ejected by just those forces that seek to clamp us in – but much as I distrust it in principle and hate it for its unearned, faux-patrician snobbery, I relish it, almost worship it.

Oh, just look at you all. Self-satisfied but still desperate to get on, do better, compete, make more. And it’s okay because this is the way everybody is, this is what everyone does, so there’s nothing to be gained by being any different. That’s the new orthodoxy, this is the new faith. There was never an end of history, just a perceived end of the need to teach it, remember it, draw any lessons from it. Because we know better, and this is a new paradigm, once more. I have a friend – again, in London – who’s a Libertarian. Actually I have a few, though they wouldn’t all call themselves such. In theory it’s a broad church with a decent left wing, but everyone I meet seems to be on the right: Rand fans. Idea appears to be that people just need to be encouraged to be a bit more selfish and all our problems will be sorted.

I don’t think I get this.

And it’s so unambitious, so weak, so default and mean-spirited; in a way so cowardly. Is that really the most we can look for in ourselves? Just give in and be selfish; settle for that because it’s what the last generation did and look how well it worked out for them? (Fuck subsequent ones; they can look after themselves.) Settle for that because it’s easy to find that core of childish greed within us, and so simple to measure the strength of it, through power and money. Or, boiling it down a bit further, just with money.

Really? I mean, seriously? This is the best we have to offer ourselves?

Fuck me, a bit of fucking ambition here, for the love of fuck.

However, I am interrupted. I always am.

‘What’s it like being returned to the scene of the crime, eh?’ a slightly slurred voice asks.

I turn towards the voice and it’s Donald Murston, still in his coal-black suit but with his fat tie loosened. His face is red and shiny with drink. His expression is still pretty hard – you imagine Don’s expression will be hard until the day he dies, and possibly some time beyond – but he looks friendly enough, so long as you make the requisite allowances.

‘Mr M,’ I say, nodding to him. I can feel myself sobering up again, fast, though whether it’s fast enough is debatable. Does he know about Grier and Fraser and me and our little confrontation ten minutes ago? Has he come over to tell me to get out? ‘Glad I was able to be here,’ I tell him. I’m on the brink of adding, Thank you for that … but some rogue remaining shred of self-respect intervenes and stops me. ‘I’m glad I’ve been able to say goodbye to Joe.’

‘Aye, and saying hello to a lot of drink I’m payin for, eh?’

His glittery eyes inspect me and I try to work out if he’s actually upset or just fucking with me for a laugh. Somehow I suspect he doesn’t know anything of the micro-tussle between me, Grier and Fraser in the corridor earlier. This is just a generalised piece of intimidation – if that’s what it’s meant to be – not anything triggered by specifics.

‘Well, thanks for that too,’ I tell him. ‘I’d have been happy to pay, but … I think everybody appreciates your generosity.’

I am being so fucking polite and restrained here. I’d be quite impressed with myself if I wasn’t all too aware how horribly easy it would be to really upset him. Always assuming he isn’t really upset already, of course.

He swings an arm, sort of slaps me medium-weight on the upper arm in what is probably meant to be a bluff, manly sort of way. ‘Nah, it’s all right. Just thought it might be funny for you, being back here after that night, you know?’

‘Well, it is,’ I admit. ‘I’ve … I’ve spoken to Ellie. Apologised to her. Took all this time to be able to do that, face to face. Which. Well … But, for what it’s worth—’

‘You behaving yourself down there in the big smoke, aye?’

Fair enough; I was starting to ramble. ‘Aye, yes. Working away, you know.’

‘You got anyone special?’

‘Eh? Well, no.’ This is a bit surprising. What age am I again? ‘No, I’m away so much—’

‘Good job we didnae catch you that night, eh?’

‘Aye,’ I say, breathing out with a sigh as I scratch the back of my neck. ‘Aye. It’s as well.’ I look into those small, sharp-looking eyes of his. I can see Powell Imrie sort of hovering a table away, hands clasped. ‘I understand why you were so angry, Mr M. I’m sorry,’ I hear myself say. Jeez, what am I getting into here? ‘You took me into your family and I—’

‘Aye, well, aye, never mind,’ Don says, seemingly made as awkward as I am with all this. ‘She’s my darling girl,’ he tells me brusquely. ‘I’ll do anything for her. Both the girls. Both of them. Always. But Ellie especially.’ His gaze shifts from me to somewhere over my shoulder. He smiles. Real smile, too. ‘Ah, an talk of the devil, eh?’

Ellie, returned, wears smart but casual black jeans, lilac blouse and dark jacket. She walks straight up to us.

‘Dad, Stewart. You two okay?’ she asks, looking and sounding tense, wary, though hiding it well.

‘Fine, braw, good, aye,’ Don says.

‘You’re not running Stewart out of town again, are you, Dad?’ She smiles, to undercut the question a little.

‘No, well, he’s off tomorrow, that right, aye?’ Don says, fixing me with his gaze.

‘Aye,’ I say. ‘Back down the road tomorrow.’

‘And anyway,’ Don says, still looking at me, ‘we weren’t tryin to run him out of town the last time.’

I think his eyes narrow a wee bit. Do his eyes narrow a wee bit? I think they do. I think his eyes narrow a wee bit.

‘We were tryin,’ Donald says slowly, ‘to get our hands on him.’ That last sentence sounds like about half of a longer sentence, but Don has censored it.

‘I told Donald I’d apologised to you,’ I tell Ellie. My mouth is getting dry. I wonder where I left my pint.

‘Yes.’ Ellie looks from me to her dad. ‘And he did.’

‘Aye, well,’ Donald says. ‘But that doesn’t make everythin all right, does it?’

There is, technically, a question mark at the end of that sentence of Donald’s, but it’s about as vestigial as they come.

‘No,’ Ellie says. ‘Not by itself.’ She looks calmly at me, then says to Don, ‘Stewart tells me he still has feelings for me.’ Her gaze swivels in my direction while Don just stares at my nose. ‘Isn’t that right, Stewart?’

I take a moment before answering, ‘Ah. Ah, yes, that’s what I said. It’s true. I also said I didn’t expect anything—’

‘Aw aye?’ Don says, and he doesn’t sound or look even slightly drunk now. ‘That’s funny. I still have feelings for Stewart, too. I’ll bet the boys, I bet they still have feelings as well.’ He glances at Ellie. ‘But maybe no quite the same as your feelings.’

I glance over at Powell Imrie, who has his back to us now. He’s talking to Murdo, who is looking round Powell’s broad shoulder at his dad, Ellie and me, and might be trying to get past Powell to get to us. Powell seems to be placating him. No sign of the other brothers.

Ellie smiles calmly, first at me, then at Don. ‘Whereas the feelings that matter most here are mine, don’t you think, Dad?’

Don is back to staring at me. His eyes are definitely narrowed now. Aye, if you say so, love.’ He seems to shake himself out of something and looks at her. ‘So what are your “feelings”?’ he asks. The quotation marks are as obviously present as the question mark, moments earlier, was effectively absent.

Ellie takes her dad’s upper arm in one hand and mine in the other, holding us like a ref before a boxing match. ‘To tell the truth, I’m not sure yet,’ she says. ‘I’m still trying to decide how I feel.’

Don shakes his head. ‘Hen, if you need to think about it, then—’

‘Actually, your dad might be right here,’ I butt in.

Don glares at me. ‘You a fuckin mind reader?’ he hisses at me. ‘You think you know what I’m goin to say? You think you know what I’m thinkin?’

‘I was trying to agree—’ I protest.

‘I don’t need you agreein with anything I—’

‘Will you both just stop?’ Ellie says gently. She squeezes my arm a little. Probably his too. ‘This is about me? Hello? And I’m still thinking, and we’ll talk about this, sensibly, I hope, when I’ve decided how I feel? That okay, Dad?’ she asks, tipping her head towards Don, her hair swinging gracefully.

Don looks thoughtful. ‘Maybe,’ he concedes.

‘Stewart?’ she asks.

‘Wish I knew what this was meant to accomplish, I confess.’

‘Clearing the air,’ Ellie says, to both me and Don. ‘Just because you might not want to hear something doesn’t mean it doesn’t need saying.’ She looks at Don. ‘Dad, Stewart and I are going to take a wee walk, okay?’ She looks at me. ‘Okay?’

‘Okay,’ I say.

She looks back at Don. ‘Okay?’

‘Can’t stop you going for a walk, love,’ Don says. He seems more wary than angry now.

‘Good. Mum’s gone to her class,’ Ellie tells Don. ‘She’ll be back about four.’

‘Aye, okay. I’ll make sure the posse’s back for then.’

‘I’ll see you later, Dad.’ Ellie leans in to kiss him on the cheek. ‘Stewart,’ she says, letting go of her father and turning back towards the main doors, ‘shall we?’