"Fffuck," I shook my head.

"What the hell," Ashley said, rising. "I suppose the Glasgow middle classes have to go somewhere after they've braved the treacherous waters of the Crinan canal." She gave her hands one final dust. "Hope they're happy there."

We turned to leave the mound, me and the Ash, then I grabbed her arm. "Hi." She turned to me. "Berlin," I said. The jacuzzi; I just remembered."

"Oh yeah." She started walking down the slope, back to the weeds, the junk and the ankle-high remains of old brick walls. I followed her. "I was in Frankfurt," she said. "Seeing this friend from college? We heard things were happening in Berlin so we hitched and trained it; met up with… Well, it's a long story, but I ended up in this fancy hotel, in the swimming pool; and had a big whirlpool bath in a wee sort of island at one end, and this drunken English guy was trying hard to chat me up, and making fun of my accent and —»

"Cheeky basturt," I said as we got to the main road.

We waited while a couple of cars sped north out of town.

That's what I thought," Ashley nodded, as we crossed the road. "Anyway, when I told him where I came from he started saying he knew the place well and he'd been shooting here, and fishing, and knew the laird and —»

"Do we have a laird?" I didn't know. Perhaps he meant Uncle Fergus."

"Maybe, though when I asked him that he got cagey and said no… but the point is he was acting all mysterious about something, and he'd already said there was somebody here who was having the wool pulled over their eyes, and had been for a long time, and he thought their name was… " Ash stopped at the snicket that led up to Bruce Street. My route back to Uncle Hamish's house went straight along the main road.

I looked up the wee path, lit by a single yellow street lamp, half way up. Then I looked back into Ashley Watt's eyes.

"Not McHoan, by any chance?" I asked.

"Yep," Ash nodded.

"Hmm," I said. Because McHoans are fairly thin on the ground around here. Or anywhere, for that matter.

"Who was this guy?"

"Journalist. There to cover the big knock-down."

"What was his name?"

"Rudolph something, I think somebody called him. He wouldn't say."

"You might have used your feminine wiles."

"Well, at the time they were more or less fully employed on a systems analyst from Texas with shoulders wide as the prairie sky and a gold company Amex card, to be perfectly honest, Prentice." Ash smiled sweetly.

I shook my head. "Saucy bitch."

Ash grabbed my balls through my 501s and squeezed gently. My breath baled out.

"Language, Prentice," she said, then released, covered my mouth with hers, wiped my teeth with her tongue, then swivelled, walked away.

"Wow," I said. The old testes were complaining, but only slightly. I cleared my throat. "Night, Ashley," I said, cool as I could.

Ash turned, grinning, then reached into her big, naval-looking jacket with the brass buttons and fished something out; threw it.

I caught the projectile; a little lump of grey concrete, smooth and dark on one side.

"Die Mauer," she said, walking backwards. "Actually from the section near the Brandenburg Gate where it said, 'Viele viele bunte Smarties!. The red paint on one surface used to be in the middle of the dot in the last 'i'. Bit of the world that used to be between Germanics." She waved. "Night, Prentice."

I looked at the grainy chunk of concrete in my hand. "Wow," I breathed. Ash's fair hair flared briefly under the street light, then dimmed as she walked away. "Wow!"

He looked round the Solar of the castle. The big new window at the gable end of the hall was still covered with a translucent plastic sheet which rustled in the wind and crackled as the rain blew onto it. A shifting grid of dark lines was the shadow of the scaffolding outside. The high-ceilinged hall smelled of paint, varnish, new wood and drying plaster. He walked over to one of the mullioned windows, and stood there, looking out at the low clouds as they drifted over Gallanach, soaking the dull town with the curving veils of rain they dragged beneath them, like the train of some vast grey gown.

"Daddy, daddy! Uncle Fergus says we can go up on the roof with mum if we're careful! Can we? Please can we? Promise we won't jump off!" Lewis skipped into the hall, dragging little Prentice behind him. Lewis had his anorak back on, and Prentice was dragging his behind him over the shining parquet floor.

"Aye son, I suppose so," Kenneth said, sitting on his ankles to pull the younger boy's jacket on and zipping it up. Lewis went leaping and whooping round the hall while this was going on. "Not so loud, Lewis," Kenneth said, without much conviction.

Prentice smiled at his dad. "Daddy," he said in his slow, croaky voice. "Need the toilet."

Kenneth sighed, pulled the child's hood up, then pushed it back down again. "Aye well; your mum will take you. Lewis!" he shouted. Lewis darted guiltily away from the paint pots he'd been examining at the other end of the hall, and came running over.

"This is great, daddy! Can we get a castle too, aye?"

"No. We can't afford it. Take your brother back to his mum; he needs the toilet."

"Aww," whined Lewis, staring accusingly at his young brother, who just grinned at him and wiped his nose on one cuff of his anorak. Lewis prodded Prentice in the back. "You're always spoiling things!"

"Do as you're told, Lewis," McHoan said, straightening. His knees complained as he did so. "On you go. And be careful on that roof." He waved them both towards the double doors they'd entered through.

Lewis made a show of plodding off, clumping one foot in front of another, body swaying exaggeratedly. He was pulling Prentice by one toggle of his anorak hood.

"By the hand, Lewis," Kenneth said wearily.

"You're a pest, boy," Lewis told his younger brother as they reached the doorway.

Prentice turned and waved to his dad with his free hand. "Bye, daddy," the wee voice said. Then he was pulled out of the room.

"Bye, son," McHoan said, and smiled. Then he turned back to the window and the rain.

"It's a bit damp still."

"Ach, yer no afraid of a bit a wet, ur ye? Yer no a girrul ur ye.

"No I'm not a girl. But if I get my clothes mucky —»

"Your dad's rich; he can buy you new clothes."

"Aye — yer paw's rich. You could probably have new claes every day if you wantit."

"Don't be ridiculous. All I'm saying —»

Kenneth could see both points of view; Lachy, in a grimy shirt held together by odd buttons and a safety pin, and tattered, patched short trousers that drooped below his knees and had probably belonged to at least two elder brothers, was already grubby (and sporting the vivid remains of a black eye no one had mentioned because it had probably been his dad who gave it him). Fergus had nice, well-fitting clothes on: grey serge short trousers, a new blue jersey and a tweed jacket with leather patches sewn on the elbows. Even Kenneth felt a little dowdy in comparison. His shorts had been darned at the back, though he was getting a new pair when the next clothes rations came through. The girls all wore skirts, blouses and jerseys; their socks were white, not grey. Emma Urvill had a coat with a little hood that made her look like a pixie.

"Are we playing this game or not?" she asked.

"Patience," Lachy said, turning to the girl, still standing holding her bike. "Patience, lassie."

Emma looked skywards and made a tutting noise. Beside her, Kenneth's sister, Ilsa, also on her bike, shook her head.

The castle stood on the side of the hill. The tall trees around it were still dripping, and its rough, uneven stones were dark and wet from the rain that had not long stopped. A watery sun gleamed on the dark leaves of the ivy that clung to one side of the ruin, and in the forest behind, a wood pigeon cooed softly.