A robin lands on a branch to his left at eye level, its twig-legs seeming too delicate to support the plump feathered body. The bird cocks its head at him once, then it’s gone. Jimmy was only half right, William is not one of them, but neither is he merely an observer. He wishes Jimmy were here now, so he could tell him how he’s afraid that part of him is being buried with those children, that the village’s brokenness has broken him.

A violent sawing cuts through the sky, then a thup-thup-thup of dashed air, so loud and close that William drops to his knees on the muddy path. When he looks up he sees photographers at the helicopter window, their giant black lenses trained on the hillside.

He’s indignant at their intrusion, yet along with its racket, a feeling of liberation steals over him. He imagines the bodies within those coffins, some of which he was the last one to touch. He remembers the girl’s hand in his and something in him shifts. His throat clears, his lungs draw in the cold air, as his body prepares to give its best to these shattered families.

‘Paham mae dicter, O Myfanwy,

Yn llenwi’th lygaid duon di?

A’th ruddiau tirion, O Myfanwy,

Heb wrido wrth fy ngweled i?’

The memory of Martin’s beautiful voice comes to him so clear and complete, it’s as if they’re singing their favourite duet again right here on this mountaintop. His voice is warm and elastic; his hands unclasp and conduct with smooth, generous sweeps. William sings like he hasn’t sung since he was a boy. It doesn’t matter that no one hears him. It matters that he’s doing it.

‘Anghofia’r oll o’th addewidion

A wneist i rywun, ’ngeneth ddel,

A dyro’th law, Myfanwy dirion

I ddim ond dweud y gair “Ffarwél”.’

As if rehearsed, at the final verse the helicopter pirouettes and whomps away across the landscape with its loot. The smell of soggy bracken and trampled ferns fuses with a sense of being untethered, of floating free across the mountains.

The gentle patter of dog’s claws on the path behind stops just as William registers it. He turns. Ears pricked, head to one side, the Jack Russell looks at him before trotting off, sniffing the road, lifting its leg. William wipes his sleeve across his face. Time to clamp his defences back down before the flotsam and jetsam of his own life is washed up by the tidal wave of Aberfan’s grief; his father’s death, the abrupt end to his chorister days, the rift with his mother, with Martin. And now, Gloria. The cold hardens around him and the weight of the white sky seems to push down on the hillside. He can tell by the rise and fall of their voices that the villagers are singing ‘Jesu, Lover of My Soul’.