‘Did I hit something?’ she asks.

He shakes his head.

‘People will …’ he tails off. He shrugs helplessly, gestures at her clothes. She’s looking back at him, and he feels a sudden chill.

‘I don’t mean …’ he starts, but stops again.

Her face is blank, but he catches something knowing in her eye.

‘Have you slept with him?’ he asks.

‘Archie?’ she says.

He hadn’t meant to ask that. But he nods.

‘Yes.’

He swallows.

‘You slept with him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fuck’s sake,’ he breathes. He feels an unreasoning anger swell. He strikes the dashboard in front of him with one pudgy hand and it shakes the little car. He’s surprised at himself, and he looks up at Rose with a half-smile at his own ridiculousness, but she is rigid with fear.

His face falls.

‘Rose,’ he says.

She starts the car.

‘I’m sorry, Rose.’

She drives on.

Dillon goes to her house after school. He walks fast. He can’t put a name to what he’s feeling, but it tears around inside him in a fierce rolling boil. His eyes ache, his temples ache. There’s a hook of guilt lodged in his gut. Even on an ordinary day, he often feels like he’s high up, on a ledge or a tightrope. Now it’s like he’s falling.

The late October sun is low and still warm. The stone of the high street glows pleasantly. The pavement is hard under his feet.

As he walks, he brings an order to things, and a name.

He is angry. He is angry with Rose.

It’s such a relief.

Rose’s house. He’s been here a few times now and never gone in. He doesn’t even know if she’s there. He doesn’t know what he wants to say, or how.

The house is stone, terraced. The garden at the front is tidy, with bushes in tubs and a gravel chip path.

He knocks at the door. A man answers. He is older, grey-haired. Not old, but older. He wears jeans, a hoody. Trainers. He has a double chin. Watchful eyes.

‘Looking for Rose,’ says the man. The flesh of his cheeks creases into folds. He winks. It seems to be an effort. ‘Ah,’ he says. He holds out a hand. ‘Graeme,’ he says. ‘Come on in.’

But Dillon doesn’t want to go in. He doesn’t know why.

‘Will you tell her I’m here?’

Graeme raises his eyebrows. ‘OK.’ He turns, then turns back. ‘Name?’

‘Dillon.’

He goes back in, leaving the door open behind him.

Dillon hears footsteps. He can see into the hall. It’s carpeted, with carpet that is strange, like other people’s carpets always are. The patch by the door where people’s feet fall is worn and dirty. The house smells of bacon and air freshener. He can see the living room through the window. There’s a telly. There’s a large picture of a cow.

Rose steps into the doorway, one hand on the open door. She’s in her old jeans, a T-shirt. Her hair is unbrushed. Dillon swallows. She looks like she used to.