And a couple of days ago Fergus had suggested they go for a longer hike, up into the trackless hills where the Landy couldn't reach. They would take collapsible rods, a couple of guns, and have to fish and shoot to eat. They could stay in the old lodge; it would save taking a tent.

So here they were, on the first floor of the old lodge, which was now used just as a bothy. The room they were in contained a single big dormer window, a fireplace, a couch, a table and two seats, and two bunkbeds. There were other rooms with more beds, but keeping to one room meant only lighting one fire; the autumn weather had turned chilly early.

No," Fergus said, looking up from where he lay, slumped against the couch. "But you don't mind me talking about Fiona like this, do you? I mean, your sister. My wife. You sure you don't mind, do you?"

"Positive."

"Good man."

"McCaig's Folly, eh?"

"Hmm? Oh; well yes… at least I think so. Got the idea from Charlotte, actually."

"What, your sister?"

"Mmm. The one that married that chap Walker, from Edinburgh."

"Oh yeah; I remember." Rory went over to the seat that held his jacket.

"Funny girl, Charlie; had this thing about… antiquity. Got Walker to deflower her under this ancient fucking yew tree in Perthshire. So she told me, anyway."

"Uh-huh." Rory rummaged in his jacket pockets.

"Fiona and I thought we'd try something like that, one time we were in Oban, for some do. You know; put a bit of sparkle back in… You sure you don't mind me talking about your sister like this?"

"Yeah." Rory took his tobacco tin from the jacket. He held the tin up. "As long as you don't mind me having a little smoke?"

"Not at all, not at all. Bloody cold it was, in that damn folly. Had to sit on a — Oh,'Fergus said, suddenly realising. "You mean the old wacky baccy."

Rory smiled, sat down. "That's the stuff."

"Not at all," Fergus said, waving one hand. "Go ahead." He watched carefully as Rory set out the papers. "Mmm, go ahead."

Rory looked up, saw Fergus's fascinated expression. "Do you want any of this, Fergus?"

"Umm," Fergus said, sitting back, blinking. "Could do, I suppose. Never really tried it, to be honest. Couple of chaps at the school got booted out for that stuff and I never did get round to it."

"Well, I'm not forcing you."

"Not at all. Not at all."

They smoked the joint. Fergus, used to the occasional cigar with his brandy now that he'd given up his pipe, pronounced the smoke quite cool, and objected more to the sweet taste of the Old Holborn than to the scent of resin.

"This any good for hanky-panky?" he said, passing the roach back to Rory, who took a last hot toke then flicked the remains into the heart of the fire.

"Can be," he said.

"Might try it some time. God knows we could do with something to — Look, you absolutely sure you don't mind me talking about your sister this way?"

"Positive."

"Good man — hey! Did you hear that?"

Rory looked up at the ceiling. Fergus was staring at the plasterboard expanse above them. Rory listened. Then, above the crackling of the fire, he did hear something; a quiet, scrabbling noise in the roof-space above them.

"Rats, I'll bet!" Fergus said, and rolled over to his pack.

Rory thought about it. They were here in a deserted old house in the middle of nowhere on a black and starless night in one of the more mysterious bits of Scotland, and there was a scrabbling, clawy sort of noise coming from the ceiling above him and this other drunk, stoned man. He shrugged. Yeah; probably rats. Or mice. Or birds.

Fergus pulled his pack gently to him, scraping over the floorboards. He lifted the rucksack up. The.303 and the shotgun were in a waterproof bag strapped to the side of the pack. Fergus undid the straps. "Ssh," he said to Rory. Rory had started building another joint. He waved. He drank some more whisky.

He was just inserting the roach when Fergus rolled over to him and held the shotgun out to him. "Here!" he whispered urgently.

"Hmm," Rory said, nodding thanks. He heard some clicks.

Fergus held the ancient Lee Enfield at his side. He knelt close by Rory. "Think the little bastard's over there." He pointed. He reached up, touched the gun Rory held. It was hard doing the roach one handed. "Put that down, man!" Fergus hissed. He took the tin from Rory's lap and put all the makings down on the floor. Rory felt peeved.

"There," Fergus said. "Safety's off. When I fire, aim where I do, all right?"

"Yup," Rory said, forgetting about the J. He took the shotgun. Fergus walked on his heels, still hunkered down, across the room, eyes and gun pointed towards the plasterboard ceiling. He stopped. There was a noise like a spider running across a very sensitive microphone.

Bang! went the rifle. Rory almost dropped the shotgun. "There!" yelled Fergus. Plaster was falling from a small hole in the ceiling; there was smoke in the air. Rory aimed at the small hole, pulled the trigger. The gun struck back against his shoulder, sending him falling back off his seat. He clattered to the floor.

"Well, pump it, man, pump it!" he heard Fergus shouting from somewhere.

Awful lot of smoke around. Ears seemed to be ringing. He pumped the gun. (Funny; he'd have thought Fergus would have been a side-by-side man.) There was another sharp crack of sound from the.303. He saw the hole appear in the plaster almost right above him. Great; he could get the little bastard without having to get up from the floor. The floorboards ought to provide extra firing stability, too. He pulled the trigger again. The gun went Blam! with a little less sonic enthusiasm than before, though it hurt his shoulder a little more.

A white waterfall of plaster burst down from the ceiling and slapped and pattered all over him. Rory spat bits out of his mouth, blinked the white dust out of his eyes. He heard Fergus colliding with something in the room. He pumped the gun, looked round. Fergus was lying on the couch, aiming at the centre of the ceiling. He fired the Lee Enfield again; Rory was getting the hang of this now, and aimed the shotgun at the same place and fired it, almost before the noise of Fergus's shot had stopped echoing. The room was getting a bit hazy, and there was probably blood coming from his ears, but what the fuck. Rory readied the gun again.

He tried to follow where Fergus was pointing his rifle. As he did so, still lying there with his legs up on the chair he'd fallen over, he started to over-balance to one side, towards Fergus.

"Aah!" Rory said. He tried to put one hand out to stop himself, but the gun was still in his grip. The long, blue-black barrel arced towards Fergus. Fergus looked, as Rory fell helplessly over, the gun barrel falling like some felled tree, wide muzzle pointed straight towards him.

Rory could tell exactly what was going to happen, and couldn't stop it.

Fergus's eyes widened. He jumped; fell over the back of the couch.

Rory fell onto his side; the shotgun roared and the rear of the couch blew open in a dusty horsehair explosion.

Rory let the gun down to the floor. The noise still rang in his ears. The room stank of smoke and the fire had gone strangely quiet. "Ferg?" he said, tentatively. Couldn't hear himself speak. "Ferg!" he shouted.

He sat upright, leaving the gun on the floorboards. Plaster tumbled off his body in clouds of dust.

"Hello?" Fergus said, appearing over the top of the couch, gunless.

Rory looked at him. They both blinked, eyes watering. "Did we get it?" Rory asked.

"Don't know," Fergus said. He staggered round the rear of the couch, feet crunching in plaster, and sat down. He looked at the still slightly smoking hole in the couch, just beside where he'd sat, then up at the holes in the ceiling.

He stayed looking at the holes in the ceiling for a while. Then he started crying.