Ahead, the phone light dances on and I follow, past more abandoned caravans. Suddenly, the light from the flashlight disappears and darkness falls like a blanket. I duck down; I feel more exposed without the light. I don’t know where he is, where he’s gone. I count to twenty again. I want to turn around, bolt back to the warm glow of the pub. I’d order a whisky to settle myself and then I’d call Upton, tell her everything I know. But what if it’s too late by then? If I go back now we may never know the truth about Meg, about Grace. I owe it to Simon, to Cara, to myself. I think of the promise I made to Jakey, see him waiting for me, glancing at his watch. I’ve broken too many promises already.

Bending low to the ground, I make myself move forward. Without Robbie’s flashlight it’s hard to see which way to go, but then my eye catches a flicker. To my right there’s a small light, no bigger than the light from a match. But it’s there and it’s all I have so I decide to go towards it. I keep my eyes on the light and my shin smacks against something hard and flat. I yelp in pain, fall to the ground biting my tongue to stop from calling out. My mouth fills with the coppery taste of blood. I clutch my leg and wait for the pain to subside. My hands are damp as I lift them off my leg. I’m bleeding, but there’s no serious damage done. I stand slowly and, pulling my coat over my hand, move the nettles to the side to see what I crashed into. It’s a sign on top of another sign. The top one says PRIVATE and the one below says PORT RAYNOR CARAVAN PARK. I remember Simon in the café, telling me he booked a caravan for Meg’s birthday, the weekend Danny died. I remember Dave telling me the twins’ dad used to work in tourism—thought he ran a hostel, but wasn’t sure—could it have been a caravan park? The nettles nip at my ankles, and as I walk on the light grows, the glow welcome in the darkening night. The light is coming from another, larger caravan. The overgrown yard is dotted with the forgotten skeletons of family life, an abandoned child’s bike, a rusty small trampoline, all being slowly digested by brambles and ivy. There’s an old Volvo parked carelessly at an angle, its nose almost touching the front of the caravan. I stay crouching behind a tiny, moldy pile of logs. The curtains in the caravan are drawn, but they’re flimsy, easy to see through, though from here I can’t make anything out, just the occasional shadow, nothing more. The caravan rattles and groans as someone walks about inside. Words are spoken but they’re too muffled, I can’t make any sense of them. More words come soon after. They are shorter, angrier, like punches thrown in a fight. One of the voices starts shouting and, as the door flies open, I shrink back, careful to keep myself hidden.