"Still in that squat in Camden, last we heard, living off his ill-gotten sub-continental gains."

"A squat?" Fergus said, words muffled. "Thought he made a packet on that… travel book thingy."

"He did," Ken nodded.

"About India, wasn't it?"

"Yep."

"Ferg," Fiona said, exasperated. "You bought the book, remember?"

"Of course I remember," Fergus said, reaching into the dishwasher to fiddle with something. "Just haven't read it, that's all. Who needs to read a book to find out about India? Just go to bloody Bradford… What's he doing living in a squat?

Ken ground his teeth for a second, looking appraisingly at Fergus's ample rear. He shrugged. "He just likes living with the people there. He's a social animal, Ferg."

"Have to be a bloody animal to live in a squat," Fergus muttered, echoing.

"Hoi, don't be horrible about my brother," Fiona said, and tapped Fergus's backside with her foot.

Fergus glanced quickly round and glared at her, his plump, slightly reddened face suddenly grim. Kenneth felt his sister stiffen next to him. Then Fergus gave a little wavering smile, and with a quiet grunt turned back to the opened machine and its instruction booklet. Fiona relaxed again.

Kenneth wondered if things were really all right with the couple. He thought he sensed a tension between them sometimes, and a couple of years earlier, not long after the twins had been born, he'd thought Fergus and Fiona had seemed distinctly cold towards each other. He had worried for them, and he and Mary had discussed it, wondering what might have caused this unhappiness, and if there was anything they could do (they had decided there wasn't, not unless they were asked). Still, he had tried broaching the subject with Fergus once, after a dinner party, while they nursed whiskies in the conservatory of the old Urvill house and watched the lights of the navigation buoys and lighthouses scattered around and through the Sound of Jura as they winked on and off.

Fergus hadn't wanted to talk. Mary had had no more success with Fiona. And anyway it had all seemed to come gradually right again.

Maybe I'm just jealous, he thought to himself, as Fiona pulled away from him and went to the big new Aga, sitting squat, cream and gleaming against one wall of whitewashed stone. She put a hand over part of the cooker's surface, gauging the heat. The silence in the kitchen went on.

Kenneth had never given Freud much credence; mainly because he had looked as honestly into himself as he could, found much that was not to his taste, found a little that was even just plain bad, but nothing much that fitted with what Freud's teachings said he ought to find. Still, he wondered if he did resent Fergus, at least partly because he had taken his sister away, made her his.

Well, you never knew, he supposed. Maybe everybody's theories were right, maybe the whole world and every person, and all their relationships within it were utterly bound up with one another in an intricate, entangled web of cause and effect and underlying motive and hidden principle. Maybe all the philosophers and all the psychologists and all the theoreticians were right… but he wasn't entirely sure that any of it made much difference.

"Mary and the kids with you?" Fiona said, turning from the Aga to look at him.

"Taking in the view from the battlements," Kenneth told her.

"Good," she nodded. She glanced at her husband. "We're getting an observatory, did Ferg tell you?"

"No." He looked, surprised, at the other man, who didn't turn round. "No, I didn't know. You mean a… a telescope; an astronomical observatory?"

"Bloody astronomically expensive," Fergus said, voice echoing in the dishwasher.

"Yes," Fiona said. "So Ferg can spend his nights star-gazing." Mrs Urvill looked at her husband, still squatting in front of the opened machine, with an expression Kenneth thought might have been scorn.

"What's that, my dear?" Fergus asked, looking over at his wife, an open, innocent expression on his face.

"Nothing," his wife said brightly, voice oddly high.

"Hmm," Fergus adjusted something inside the dishwasher, scratched above his ear with his pipe again. "Jolly good."

Kenneth looked away then, to the windows, where the rain spattered and ran.

Conceived in a howling gale, Verity was born — howling — in one, too. She came into the world a month before she was due, one windy evening in August 1970, by the shores of Loch Awe — a birth-place whose title, Prentice at least had always thought, could hardly have been more apt.

Her mother and father had been staying at Fergus and Fiona Urvill's house in Gallanach for the previous two weeks, on holiday from their Edinburgh home. For the last night of their holiday the young couple decided to visit a hotel at Kilchrenan, an hour's drive away to the north east up the side of the loch. They borrowed Fergus's Rover to make the journey. The bulging Charlotte had that week developed a craving for salmon, and duly dined on salmon steaks, preceded by strips of smoked salmon and followed by smoked salmon mousse, which she chose in preference to a sweet. She complained of indigestion.

Well — if in Charlotte's case rather monotonously — fed, they began the return journey. The evening was dull, and although there was no rain a strong warm wind was blowing, waving the tops of the trees and stroking lines of white breakers up the length of the narrow loch. The gale increased to storm force as they drove south west into it, down the single-track road on the western shore.

The narrow road was littered with fallen branches; it was probably one of those that produced the puncture.

And so, while her husband struggled with over-enthusiastically-tightened wheel-nuts, Charlotte went into labour.

Barely half an hour later a stunning blue flash — the colour of the moon and brighter than the sun — burst over the scene from the hill above.

The noise was thunderous.

Charlotte screamed.

Above, on the hillside, stood the lattice forms of two electricity pylons, straddling the heather like grey gigantic skeletons wreathed in darkness. The black wind howled and there was another blinding flash and a titanic concussion; a line of violet incandescence split the night mid-way between the two huge pylons as energy short-circuited through the air between the wind-whipped power-lines.

Charlotte screamed again, and the child was born.

The tail end of Hurricane Verity passed over the British Isles that night; it had been born in the doldrums, cut its teeth flooding bits of the Bahamas, flirted with the coast of North Carolina, and then swept off across the North Atlantic, gradually losing energy; a brief encounter with the angle between a cold front and a warm front just off Ireland refreshed it unexpectedly, and it trashed numerous pleasure boats, rattled a few acres of windows, played frisbee with a multitude of slates and broke many a bough as it passed over Scotland.

The stretch of the national electricity grid down the western shore of Loch Awe towards Gallanach was one of the storm's more spectacular victims, and Charlotte always claimed that it was right on the stroke of the final massive arc between the thrashing cables — which tripped circuit breakers in the grid to the north and plunged all of Gallanach into darkness — that her child (wrinkled, blood-flecked and salmon pink) finally slid out into her father's hands.

They named her Verity, after the hurricane.

When she was eighteen, Fergus Urvill gave his niece Verity a very special present made from one of the exhibits in the museum attached to his glass factory. For the child born to the blaze and crack of human lightning, her entry into this world marked by the same brilliant arcs of short-circuited energy that plunged Gallanach into powerless gloom, he had a necklace fashioned which was made from fulgurite.