Michael caught my eye as soon as he walked into the classroom. He was tall, his hair messy, his hands pushed into the pockets of his baggy jeans. He looked mean and moody. Dark and brooding. As I’d have imagined a Heathcliff to look, perhaps. He looked nervous despite his cool appearance and he took a seat near the back of the classroom before pulling a battered notebook and pen from his satchel.

He barely lifted his head as I spoke, taking notes furiously, his brow furrowed in concentration. At least half an hour of the class session had passed before I saw him look up for the first time and he looked intently at me.

I was struck by the vivid green of his eyes, so bright against the weatherworn tan of his skin. I found myself lost for words just momentarily, having to work at remembering what I’d been talking about.

But I’d put him out of my head that night, as soon as I got home and into the familiar routine of keeping the house running while Paul was in Belfast. It was only when I heard the words he’d written for his homework the following week, and the week after that, that I found my mind starting to wander to him more and more.

There was a rawness to his writing. An honesty to it. A grief behind it that made me want to hear more. That made me long for his turn to read, so I could hear the soft, deep lilt of his voice. When, three weeks in, he’d asked me for some feedback on a one-to-one basis, I found myself agreeing to coffee with him after class. A part of me knew I shouldn’t. Even though he was an adult, and even though this was just an evening class for fun, he was still my student. It was still against the rules. But a bigger part of me couldn’t resist.

I drove to the lay-by on Foyle Bridge at the top of the walkway down to Bay Road Park. Michael’s car was already there and I felt my heart quicken.

When I climbed into the passenger seat beside him, he reached out his hand to mine, tanned, strong. I hesitated just a moment before I responded. I didn’t know why he wanted me here when this morning he’d been so sure we should give each other some space.

‘I know what happened this morning, but I just got scared, Rachel. All this – it’s intense,’ he said, looking straight ahead at the trees in front of us.

He seemed nervous. Jittery. I wasn’t sure how to respond to him. If he was already freaked out by what was going on, what would he make of the flowers, the strange notes, the concerned police …?

He turned to look at me and on feeling his gaze I felt tears prick at my eyes.