‘Don’t look directly at the sun, sweetheart, it burns your eyes.’

‘But Yaya, you do it too.’

I bend to kiss him on the forehead, over and over as he laughs and pretend-wrestles me away. We look like everyone else as we skip down Sandymount Strand; dogs and kids, a mark of normality. No man, but then that’s not unusual these days. Tommy breaks free and he careens like a drunk – no, that won’t do, push that one away – runs unsteadily towards the surf, the frothy tongues of water that lick the sand. ‘Go, Herbie, go – mind Tommy!’ The dog bounds after him and the two of them frolic at the water’s edge and I feel wave after wave of delicious things, my body vibrating with them, fingertips electric, heat pulsing its way through me.

The fever builds and I find I’m stepping out of my trousers and pulling my T-shirt over my head, dropping them in a puddle at my feet before I sprint towards my boys. My imp is waving, beckoning me into the shimmering water. Hello, Elation, you spangly bitch. I’m in my bra and knickers, but that’s ok because it’s hot and others are in their swimsuits and my underwear could pass for a bikini, so this is fine this is fine this is fine. Herbie is barking wildly. He’d have been put down in a week’s time, they said, if I hadn’t taken him then. Who rescued who? – the thought rises as I am submerged, the cold a tingle, adding to all the other tingles of the day, and my head is under and it’s silky salty down here.

My body feels strong as I push through the surge of water, the sunlight refracted like so many tiny stars, until my lungs are burning, and my heart is thrumming in my throat. I turn on my back and float, staring directly at the concentration of light. When I close my eyes a carnival of colours and shapes explodes behind my lids. Oh, Mr Sunshine’s working his magic alright! I crane my neck to see my boys, but there’s a stranger, bending down to talk to Tommy. A distorted version of the happy song of moments before burrows and grooves. Now the stranger is picking him up. Not ok. Strike at the sea with sharp, staccato strokes, fluid sloshing in my ears and mouth. As soon as my feet hit the shallows I sprint, pushing the body of water away as if it were mere air.

‘It’s ok, it’s ok, sweetheart, I’m here now, I’m here,’ I say, or I think I say, my voice warped and bouncing in my ears as I open my arms to gather him up.

‘You really shouldn’t leave a little one alone like that,’ the stranger says, an old woman who’s cradling Tommy too close. ‘Here,’ and she reaches into her bag to hand me a towel. ‘Where are your clothes?’

I don’t like the aura of authority about this woman who still hasn’t let go of my son. Start to shake with anger and cold, purple patches breaking out on my arms and legs.