Say no to sweets. Refuse all invitations to see kittens. Tell a grown-up where you are at all times. Never walk home late and alone, but if you must, dress soberly, anonymously. Cross to the opposite pavement if you are followed and pretend to be on your phone. Take the sharp edge of your house key and brace it between your fingers as a makeshift weapon. Fill your lungs. Be ready to scream.

Viola was led to believe that these rules would not apply here, that they could be left behind on the mainland. But the rules cling like limpets to the bottom of the boat. Viola cannot unremember them. She cannot action them either. How can you cross to the opposite pavement in a place that has no pavements? What use is a phone at your ear with no signal to feed it? And who carries a house key when there isn’t cause to lock your door in the first place? Still, it feels like a transgression to be bouncing down the East Road in the passenger seat of a 1980s Land Rover. The man behind the wheel in the black police uniform and yellow reflective jacket is not a stranger. But he is a strange man, certainly.

Viola scans the blur of pines through the window, searching for outlines, people, anyone who might see them hammering past, hear the noisy engine and smell the rotten exhaust. Anyone who might be willing to stand as a witness.

Her driver doesn’t speak and hasn’t since he instructed her brusquely at the Sisters’ Stones to get in the cab. He rolls a hard mint from cheek to cheek, clicking it against his teeth, pausing every so often as if he might say something, but no words come. He offered Viola a mint before starting the engine, but she refused. Like a good girl.

As they leave the coverage of Cable’s Wood, the sea spills out on their left, the surface of water still blanketed by fog. It is spring though, so this fog will lift when the sun rises, allow the first ship of the year to find its way. If she turned in her seat, Viola would see that giant’s bite in the cliffside behind them, but she doesn’t look back. They hurtle past the turning for her home – ‘home’ being not exactly the right word – to her mother, the old Reunyon Farmstead. That they have passed this exit is cause for relief but also sends a bitter wash of adrenalin to her mouth. She should speak, demand to be taken there, if only to show she is in charge. Instead, she pulls Dot, who sits damply on her lap, closer to her body for protection. The dog pants at the window, adding an extra layer of fog to the view. With every bump in the road, her wet nose draws ticks and swirls in the film on the glass.