'Bought it or stole it, depending on your position.'

'Was an awful fool, the owner.' The landlord leaned on the bar with both elbows. 'An awful fool. The pig farm goes belly up and what does he do? Lets all the farmers in Argyll dump their dodgy chemicals out there. Ended up a death pit, the place — pigs all over the island, old mine shafts, chemicals. In the end he has to give it all away. Ten thousand pounds! They could have stole it from him, it'd be more honest.'

'You won't like that,' I said, in a level, casual voice. 'People coming from the south and buying up all the property round here.'

The lobsterman sniffed. 'Doesn't bother us. What we don't tolerate is when they buy a place, then lock themselves away and get up to all their queer rituals. That's when it bothers us — them hunkering down out there, consorting with the de'il, doing nothing but eating babies and giving each other a rare auld peltin' whenever they've a mind to.'

'Aye,' said the landlord. 'And then there's the smell.'

I looked at the landlord. I wanted to smile. 'The smell? From the island?'

'Ah!' he said, throwing the tea towel over his shoulder. 'The smell.' He fished under the bar for a giant bag of crisps and opened it, shovelling a fistful into his mouth. 'Do you know what they say? What they say is the signature smell of the devil? The smell of the devil is the smell of shite — that's what it is. Now, you go to anyone out there-' He jabbed a crisp-covered finger at the window. Crumbs confettied on to his T-shirt. '- out on Jura or in Arduaine, and they'll all tell you the same thing. The smell of shite comes off Pig Island. There's no better proof of their rituals than that.'

I studied him thoughtfully. Then I turned and looked across the dark sea. The moon was out and a wind had come up and was whipping branches against the windowpane. Beyond our reflections, beyond the image of the landlord standing under the lighted optics, I could see an absence — a dark space against the night sky. Pig Island.