I sighed, and the package against my chest flexed again. I looked down at it. Hell, this was silly; I ought to read the stuff. Waiting until I got back to the house and was sitting at the desk in the study was just putting it off.

"How's the wonderful world of Swiss banking these days anyway, Hel?" Lewis asked.

"Oh, wacky and transparent as ever," Helen said. They started talking about Zurich and London, and I sat down on the slope of slated roof, behind them. I pulled the airmail package out and opened it carefully. Verity looked back at me and smiled briefly, before turning back to Helen and Lewis to share some joke about the Hard Rock Café. My hands felt clammy as I slid the sheets of paper out of the thick white envelope. This is daft, I thought. It probably is gibberish, or Rory's job application for that travel programme presenter's job; a CV for the TV. Nothing important, nothing revelatory.

The first sheet was a letter from the good Doctor, arcane with acronyms and abbreviations, telling me how he'd deciphered the binary mush he'd been sent and turned it into what I held in my hands. He sounded like a likeable guy, but I kind of just glanced at the letter. I went on to the print-out.

There were about fifty or sixty pages of single-space laser print. The first twenty or so pages were taken up with pieces I recognised: articles and poems and the nameless play Rory had apparently decided to cannibalise for the end of Crow Road. Then came three passages of prose.

I glanced up at the others; Helen and Verity were still talking, Lewis was looking through the binoculars towards Gallanach. I started reading, and my mouth went dry.

I raced through each of the passages, my eyes bulging, hands shaking. The voices of the others, the cool December air and the chill slates under my backside seemed like they were all a million miles away, as I read what Uncle Rory had written.

"D'you know where the twins were conceived?"

"No idea," he said, and belched.

"Fucking McCaig's Folly, that's where."

"What, Oban?"

"The very place."

"Good grief."

'you don't mind me saying this, I mean talking about Fiona like this, do you?"

"No, no." He waved one hand. "Your wife; you talk about her. No. no, that's bad, that sounds bad. I'm all for women's lib."

"Might have bloody known. Might have bloody known you would be. Bloody typical, if you ask me. You're a Bolshie bastard, McHoan."

"And you are the unacceptable face of Capitalism, Ferg."

… That was how the first passage began. I finished it and realised my mouth was hanging open. I closed it and started, dazed, the next passage:

"Henriss… never liked him either; fat lipped beggar… queer, y'know; thass wha he's singing you know; d'you know that? 'Scuse me while I kiss this guy… disgussin… absluley disgussin…

"Fergus, do shut up."

"'Scuse me, while I kiss this guy'… bloody poofter coon."

"I'm sorry about this, Lachy."

"That's okay, Mrs U. You no going to put your seat belt on, no?"

"No; not for short journeys —»

"Lachy? Lachy… Lachy! Lachy; I'm sorry about your eye… really really sorry; never forgave myself, never… here, shake

"Holy fucking shit," I whispered, when I finished it. Suddenly my hands felt very cold. I looked at the slates I was sitting on, then over at the dome of the observatory, gleaming in the low winter sun.

"You okay, Prentice?" Verity said, frowning at me from the battlements.

I nodded, tried to smile. "Fine," I gulped. I turned to the third and last passage.

Fiona sat in the passenger seat of the car, watching the red roadside reflectors as they drifted out of the night towards her; she was thrown against one side of the seat as Fergus powered the Aston around the right-hander…

… And on through to the end:

… "Look —!"

And that was all. I looked up, brain reeling.

"Yo," Helen said, looking through the binoculars. She bent at the knees and put her mug down on the stones under her feet, then rose smoothly again.

"You see him?" Verity said, turning, still hugged within Lewis" arms, to look out over the battlements.

"Could be," Helen said. She handed the field glasses over to Lewis.

"Yeah, might be," he said. It was Verity's turn next with the binoculars.

I swallowed a few times, put the sheets of paper back in their envelope. I stood up and walked over to the others, in a kind of trance.

Verity shook her head. "Na, I can't see the damn thing." She handed the glasses to me. "You're looking pale, Prentice. You sure you're okay?"

"Fine," I croaked, not looking at her. I took the binoculars. "Thanks."

I'd seen the speck unaided by that time. Once I'd found it again the binoculars enlarged the dot into the frontal silhouette of a high-winged light aircraft, flying more or less straight towards us, its body pointed a little to the south west to compensate for the wind. It waggled in the air a little as it flew down the glen, encountering a gust high above Kilmartin.

"Christ," Lewis said. "It's a Mig on a bombing run; everybody down!"

I handed the glasses back to Helen, who didn't look particularly amused. She frowned at me. "You okay, Prentice?"

"Fine," I said.

"You should have loaned your dad your jacket," Lewis told Helen.

"Doesn't fit him," Helen said, binoculars at her eyes. I watched the dot of the plane drift closer towards us through the northern sky.

"You were in a sleeping bag," I heard Lewis say softly to Verity. He was holding her from behind, chin on the crown of her head. I must have missed what they'd said earlier. I felt weird; I was glad the battlements were too high to fall over if I fainted.

Verity smiled. "I remember. We were all smoking and playing cards and taking turns to look at the stars, and we got the munchies." She frowned. "There was Diana and Helen, and… what was that guy's name?" She glanced round and up at Lewis. "Wayne somebody?"

"Darren somebody," Lewis said. He accepted the glasses from Helen, held them with one hand and balanced them on Verity's head. "Hoy, stand still."

"Sorry, sir," she said.

"Darren Watt," I said. The plane was closer now but harder to see; it had dropped below the level of the hills behind and was no longer silhouetted against the sky. You could still see it with the naked eye, though. It glinted, once.

Verity nodded. Lewis tutted in exasperation. "He was the gay guy, wasn't he?" Verity said.

"Yup," Lewis said. "Sculptor. Good, too; fucking shame, that was."

"Oh God," Verity said. "Of course, he died."

"Bike crash," Helen said, scooping up her mug of cooled wine from the flagstones, and draining it.

The plane was flying over Gallanach now. I thought I could hear its engine. I remembered standing here once with mum, years ago. Fergus and dad were shooting at clay pigeons in a field to our right somewhere, and I remembered hearing the flat Crack… Crack noise of the guns, and thinking they sounded just like one plank falling on top of another. Blam! indeed. Remember, remember…

Verity laughed, making Lewis tut again. "You were doing your radio impressions," she said, "that night. Remember?"

"Of course," Lewis said.

"Why was I in a sleeping bag?" Verity said, frowning at the approaching plane.

"You were in the cupboard." Helen smiled. She waved out across the chill afternoon air above Gallanach. I looked back at the plane, which was switching its lights on and off.

"Oh," Verity said. "Yeah; the wee cubby hole."

"Ah ha," Helen said, as Lewis waved too, still watching through the binoculars, now elevated above Verity's head. "But it was really a secret passage."

"Was it?" Verity asked, glancing at Helen.

"Yeah. Di and I used to take the bit of wood off at the back and get into the attic. Wander all over."