‘An isolated incident.’ This was my teacher’s voice. I didn’t want to be using it, not there, in my bed. ‘Jade-Marie is usually very well-behaved.’

‘And the dark-haired one?’

‘Britta?’ I offered.

‘Yes, Britta. I know her name. I just didn’t know if you did.’

‘Of course I know her name!’ I was irritated at this too-swift ownership of St Rita’s pupils, this unearned authority. They had been my girls the previous year – a pleasure to teach. The three of them were bright, without being exceptional – Anna the most academic, Britta the strident debater, Jade-Marie surpassing the others in creative tasks. I knew them far better than he ever could.

‘What of Britta?’ I asked.

‘Well…’ He pulled the sheet free of the end of the bed and covered himself too. ‘Well, she… she…’ He took a levelling breath. ‘Look, I’ve become friendly with all three girls. They sought me out early on. They wanted to know what music I had on my laptop, what films I’d seen, mainland stuff. But this one time…’

I swallowed hard. Was I frightened of what he was about to say? Jealous? I was both.

‘This one time she came to me alone.’

‘Right,’ I said. ‘And?’

‘Well, it began with our usual chitchat, music, fashion, that kind of thing… but then… then she put me in a really difficult position.’

The word ‘position’ conjured images I did not want to see. Lips pressed together under the gaze of St Rita. Bodies wrapped around one another, contorting, defiling a bed.

There had been a shift in the girls recently, since they had moved up to do their A Levels. I had witnessed it – their harder edge, their strange confidence. Still, I had no time for the rumours about them reclaiming the Sisters’ Stones and meddling in Lark’s pagan past – it meant nothing. I too had been intrigued by that part of our island’s history when I was young. Girls can be silly. They push the boundaries of what is acceptable, then they snap right back. They grow up.

I was happy with my good memories of them, how they used to be. I was happy to look away.

I laughed anxiously. ‘Is this the right time to be talking about them?’ I said. ‘I mean, am I the one you should be talking to? Don’t you think you should take this to Mr Crane if it’s a matter of –’

What was it a matter of? I was desperate to know and not know.

‘You’re right. You’re right.’ He swung his legs from the bed and started retrieving his clothes. There was a change in the breeze and the powdery tang of the smokehouse drifted in through the gaps in the window frame. It was a smell I had learnt not to notice until Ben brought it to my attention one night, shocked that I had managed to tune it out.