The waves were higher now, and the rowing was much harder. I could hear James’s breath between strokes as he pulled at his oars. The muscles of my arms were aching, but it was good to have something to concentrate on and, for a few minutes, as it became even more difficult to keep up with James’s pace, I looked only at my paddles as they splashed awkwardly into the water, forcing us through it.

There was a suddenly flickering darkness beneath the boat. It could have been nothing, a cloud passing in front of the sun, a patch of seaweed, perhaps a shoal of fish; but then it came again, dark and deep and monstrous.

I pressed my lips together and pulled firmly on my oars again. The shoreline looked almost the way I’d remembered it now, so familiar, a fantasy of what our lives could be. The white house near the cliffs looked perfect and still untouched. From here, the scorch marks on the walls looked merely like a shadow from the cliff above, the broken windows still seemed to promise the secrets of a lost civilisation. You couldn’t see the submerged houses, or the rusting, broken cars beneath the waves. You couldn’t see the abandoned rubbish in the houses, or the weeds growing in living rooms. You couldn’t see the shops with their magical colours and fabrics. You couldn’t see the rotting dead bodies of the kriks along the beachfront.

A tentacle flickered below us again, lingering this time, searching us out.

‘Are you all right, Martha?’ said James, between breaths.

‘Yes. I just want to get this over with.’

He pulled again, stronger this time, the little bubbles of water fizzing brightly against his oars as he cut through the murky waves.

Behind me I could feel the shifting in the light as the tentacles snaked gently around us, not touching us, but exploring and welcoming.

‘There’s no sheep,’ called Lana. ‘It’s eaten them all.’

We pulled again at the oars. The feathery, small feelers were beneath us now, stroking us and rippling with their strange emotions. They dragged us in, pulling us towards the body. Then there was a sudden tug.

‘Lift your oars up,’ I said. ‘Quick.’

There was a light bubbling sound beneath us, and the mesoglea started to ooze round the prow of the boat, pulling it in and fastening it to the edge of the Jellyfish.

James turned to me, white-faced, and gave a weak grin. ‘This is definitely going to go well. There is no chance we can fail.’

I smiled back. He reached out and offered his hand. I took it, gratefully. It felt rough, and dry and . . . just nice.

‘This is it, then,’ he said. ‘Let’s do it.’