I throw back the thick purple bedspread, checking the time on a phone still empty of bars. I tap on it regardless, knowing there won’t be messages or emails, but still I hope there might have been a crack of signal at some point during the night.

There is nothing. And it is already eight thirty, which means I have missed breakfast. By the time I’ve showered, dressed, and made my way to the dining room there’s no sign of Rachel, but she has left out a few boxes of cereal, some milk in a jug, and a kettle on a sideboard so I can make a cup of tea.

This morning I will pay Bob and Ruth a visit. Even though the idea of rapping on their door paralyses me, I cannot spend the next two days on the island avoiding them.

Thoughts of them circled my mind before I fell asleep last night. They were a couple of contrast. On the few occasions Jill and I were in her kitchen, Ruth had melted into the background, always busying herself cooking or cleaning, occasionally tittering at something we’d said, but never integrating herself into our conversation like Mum had. She’d give the impression she felt like a spare part whenever I was there. Her timidity only amplified when her husband was around. Bob threw himself into rooms, larger than life, full of misplaced character and usually too much beer.

Jill had tried to explain this was because they lived in a pub and that he had to accept drinks when he was offered one. I thought their family could all do with Bob getting a different job, but then I also couldn’t imagine him doing anything else.

Jill didn’t always defend her dad. I knew she didn’t like him and it was only guilt that stopped her from uttering the sentiment aloud. There were two occasions where she had bruises on her arms and once I’d touched the purple flesh without thinking, making her wince. ‘I’m sorry, does it hurt?’ I’d asked. ‘Where’s it from?’

She quickly pulled her sleeve down and changed the subject but I wouldn’t let it go. ‘Tell me what happened,’ I persisted. ‘We’re best friends, remember?’ I turned over my hand to display my middle finger where I’d cut myself a year before. She’d done the same and we’d pressed them together, swearing ourselves ‘blood sisters’. We’d got the idea from a film but had both been too scared to cut our wrists like the girls in the film had.

‘Best friends,’ she nodded and pressed her finger against mine. ‘He didn’t mean to do it. He just grabbed me too hard when he was cross. He said sorry and promised it won’t happen again. Then – then he started crying. I ended up telling him it didn’t matter.’