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crash more than thirty years ago.’
    Tormod’s face was washed by sadness. From behind round, silver-framed spectacles, he turned moist blue eyes on Fin, and for a moment Fin saw his daughter in them, and her son. Three generations lost in his confusion. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, son.’
    Fin sat them at a table by the window and went to the bar to get menus and order them drinks. When he got back to the table Tormod was struggling to take something out from his trouser pocket. He twisted and wriggled in his chair. ‘Damn, dammit,’ he said.
    Fin glanced at Marsaili. ‘What’s he doing?’
    She shook her head despondently. ‘He’s started smoking again. After giving up more than twenty years ago! He’s got a pack of cigarettes in his pocket, but he can’t seem to get them out.’
    ‘Mr Macdonald, you can’t smoke in here,’ Fin told him. ‘You have to go outside if you want to smoke.’
    ‘It’s raining,’ the old man said.
    ‘No,’ Fin corrected him gently. ‘It’s still dry. If you want a cigarette I’ll stand outside with you.’
    ‘Can’t get the damn things out of my pocket!’ Tormod’s voice was raised now. Almost shouting. The bar was filling up with townsfolk and tourists in for lunch, and heads turned in their direction.
    Marsaili’s voice was a stage whisper. ‘Dad, there’s no need to shout. Here, let me get them for you.’
    ‘I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself!’ More heads turned.
    The barman arrived with their drinks. A young man in his early twenties with a Polish accent.
    Tormod looked up at him and said, ‘Get a life!’
    ‘I think he means a light,’ Marsaili said by way of apology. She turned to Fin. ‘He’ll want matches. My mother’s been hiding them from him.’
    The barman just smiled and left their drinks on the table.
    Tormod was still struggling with his hand in his pocket. ‘It’s there. I can feel it. But it won’t come out.’
    There was some muted laughter from nearby tables. Fin said, ‘Let me give you a hand, Mr Macdonald.’ And while he wouldn’t accept Marsaili’s offer of help, Tormod was quite happy to let Fin try. Fin flicked her a glance of apology. He knelt down beside her father, aware of heads in the bar turned in their direction, and slipped his hand into Tormod’s pocket. He could feel the packet of cigarettes there right enough, but like Tormod he couldn’t seem to take it out. It was as if the cigarettes were beneath the pocket rather than in it. But Fin couldn’t figure out how that was possible. He lifted the old man’s pullover to check the waistband for some hidden pocket, and what he saw made him smile, in spite of himself. He looked up. ‘Mr Macdonald, you’re wearing two pairs of trousers.’ Which elicited a ripple of laughter from those at the closest tables who could hear.
    Tormod frowned. ‘Am I?’
    Fin looked up at Marsaili. ‘The cigarettes are in the pocket of the pair underneath. I’d better take him to the loo and get one of them off him.’
    In the toilet Fin steered Tormod into a cubicle. He managed with difficulty to remove the top pair of trousers after persuading him to take off his shoes. Then once he had the shoes back on, Fin made him sit on the pedestal while he kneeled to retie the laces. He folded the trousers and got Tormod to his feet again.
    Tormod let him do everything without resistance, like a well-trained child. Except that he insisted on expressing excessive amounts of gratitude. ‘You’re a good lad, Fin. I always liked you son. You’re just like your old man.’ And stroking Fin’s hair. Then he said, ‘I need to pee now.’
    ‘On you go, Mr Macdonald, I’ll wait for you.’ Fin turned to run the water in the sink until it was warm for the old man to wash his hands.
    ‘Ahh, shit!’
    He turned at the sound of Tormod’s cursing as the old boy’s glasses slipped off the end of his nose and fell into the urinal. The mishap did nothing, however, to lessen or divert the stream