“What’s the date today?” I ask, interrupting Ben.

“Sorry?”

“The date, what is it?”

“The seventh, I think.”

“The same day.” I say it out loud, forgetting Ben is standing next to me.

“What was that?” he asks, cupping his ear towards me, away from the wind.

I don’t want to tell him what I think I’m starting to understand. Simon timed it. He leapt off the Point with Grace the same day Danny died.

“Nothing,” I say, turning away from him. “Nice to meet you, Ben.”

I’m about to walk back to the car—I want to be on my own to think—when I hear the distant whine of a speedboat engine. Ben hears it too and we both turn back towards the sea, Ben gripping his camera. The seagulls swarm and scream above as if in warning, as if they already know what’s happened. The noise is coming from a bright orange police motorboat traveling at full speed, its hull rearing up against the waves. A shout comes up as paramedics clutching medical cases run through the crowd towards the path that leads to the beach far below, a team of police following them. The police immediately start trying to draw the crowd and the press away from the path, pulling the overly curious back from the edge, shouting, “Get back! Keep away!” They link arms to create a barrier between the crowd and the path. Ben runs towards the action, to jostle for a space at the front, but my feet have suddenly become rooted in the earth. The boat has almost reached the beach and I watch as two people in black wetsuits jump into the shallow surf and heave it up onto the sand. There’s another person in the back of the boat; they’re bending over something, or someone. The first paramedic arrives on the beach just as the boat is pulled up onto the sand and the third person carefully stands, keeping their head bowed over the white body in their arms. Even from here I recognize the limpness of her arm as it dangles in the air and it’s clear that, where there should be movement, a pulse beating through her small body, there’s nothing. Where there should be life, there’s only death.

12th December 2018

Jon Katrin came last week, with this photographer, Ben. I was wearing my new gray beanie but I didn’t feel much like having my picture taken. I used to have thick, blond hair before I got meningitis. Now when it grows it’s like the downy feathers on the baby birds Mum likes to watch on nature programs, scrawny and thin. But at least it’s something. My hair started falling out again last month, I don’t know why. I tried to hide it from Mum but she came in while I was in the bath the other night with the razor and her face all creased with worry.

“I’m so sorry this is happening again, Mouse.”

“It’s not that bad, Mum, it still covers my head.”