He had made the three-hour journey for years, watched as the flat coastal areas of the North rose to peaks in the mountains, pushed by the sea into impossible folds. Suffocating and protecting the villages in their embrace. The way the hills then modulated into open valleys of grasslands, fertile, water-riven, watched over by red kites until the soil grew pale again as he neared the coast and the salt marshes began tangling the waterfront. Each place subtly distinct, in moth and bird and dialect. Some drivers with whom he hitch-hiked expected him to talk, wanted him to alleviate their boredom. Expected it as payment for picking him up, but most of the time Joseph preferred to sit staring out of the window, allowing the hum of the engine to numb his mind. Shaking the rocking back-and-forth motion of the boats out of his system. The gruff orders, the smell of diesel, the stunned look of dead fish.

This morning, he sat, his backpack in his lap, sullen in his seatbelt. The lorry driver had switched on his radio. A subtle release from talking. He had picked up some more tablets from his contact on the way home, and some books. He felt their sharp angles through the canvas of his bag. When there had been a library in the village, he would exchange them for her, but now he would pick them up in second-hand shops here and there. She would almost snatch them from him, before disappearing to her room.

She had been right about the storm. Her warning to him. It had been weighing on his mind. His unease and guilt growing as he neared home. Their mother had always charged them with looking after each other. Had made him promise, the day before she left them. And he had, he had tried. Tried to keep her hidden, but they were barely more than children and he had made mistakes. He remembered the time that they had been playing on the beach, and he had run up to the cottage for his fishing rod. On his return, a group of young boys had encircled her. Caught her out in the open. They were laughing, goading, one boy pulling at her dress. He remembered dropping his rod and running as she screamed. Her hands over her ears. Her hair around her face. Prey. They were barely more than children, but he could have killed them. He almost did kill one of them, just to make sure they never came back to the cove.