‘We can do it ourselves. I will call the local priest, Francisco Modalo, we can do it on the beach.’

Ever took not a second to disagree, but wondered what law they would be breaking.

Slight in the light of murder one.

Lomita would be able to stay with them, be with them, be close, till the very very end.

Manita didn’t hesitate, started up and U-turned round across four lanes and headed back to the East Cape. Before turning into Casa Lomita she went to visit Jeff Murphy, the man who had rescued Lomita after her accident. She explained their idea, to make a funeral pyre. 8.00pm that night was the set time. They pulled into the second courtyard in the house, the three of them rested in the car, two of them to reflect on their decision.

Ever couldn’t deal with the coffin and went down in the late afternoon sun to the beach; the fire would not burn the bones through, he thought, not in a bonfire, not if it only turns a potato black. Ever could see his burnt black lump of potato: there would be a skull and the bones, even if the fire burnt for days.

A burial at sea.

Rocks in the coffin and a burial at sea. He ran back to the house, avoiding the rusty wreck, and two-stepped the stairs. Manita understood immediately and left with one word – ‘Jeff.’

Ever returned to the beach, searching for rocks to pile up on the edge of the hard sand. He found two rocks and sat down on the sand.

What had he made Lomita do?

He turned to the west, hearing an outboard engine, and witnessed the arrival of Pedro with a boat. A GMC pickup truck driven by a shock of blond hair came along the hard sand carrying rocks and fishing nets and chains, and piles of wood, underneath which Ever could see the pale wood of the coffin. Jeff had needed no persuasion, the inadequacy of a fire had hit him too. A large tarpaulin would go around the body with chains to secure, then the rocks were to go inside the net with more chains wrapped around to make sure the body stayed down. It was then placed inside the coffin.

The body would be released from the coffin when out at sea.

Cumbersome and heavy but Jeff, an experienced fisherman in the East Cape winter, in construction in the Alaskan summer, was convinced it would work and secure Lomita Nairn to the depths of the ocean.

‘Hey buddy. Take it easy.’

Seeing Ever’s disturbance at the plan.

Strong handshake. No sentiment. All function.

‘I’ll do the tarp, you build the fire. It’ll work. Trust me. Trust me.’

It was Jeff’s mantra. He produced a bottle of port, offered it to Ever, who declined.

‘Keeps me warm.’

He said, putting the neck to his lips.

Odd, thought Ever, in this climate.