‘Sorry, kids, but this old bus ain’t going nowhere fast,’ Danny announces, kneeling on the edge of the driver’s seat. His hands are remarkably spotless for someone who’s been supposedly nursing a broken engine for the past six minutes.

‘What’s up with it?’ April asks.

‘Radiator, looks like.’

‘Shit. Sounds expensive.’

‘I’ll slip a new one in tomorrow,’ he says.

Will is always impressed by Danny’s ability to speak with utter confidence on matters of which he knows little or nothing.

‘You all right walking to Nain’s from here, little bro?’ he asks with a warmth he doesn’t usually use to address Will.

‘How come you call her nine?’ April says.

‘Nain,’ Danny corrects, although it sounds indistinguishable from the number. ‘Welsh for “Gran”. It’s where she grew up.’

Will is only too relieved to be squeezing past the front seat, unfolding his six-five frame into the salty air. He gives his brother a thumbs up, towering awkwardly over him.

‘Don’t forget to walk Beppo,’ Danny adds with a smirk.

This is a running joke, entirely at Will’s expense, but he laughs all the same because it’s easier than getting annoyed.

‘Got the lead?’ Danny winks.

Will opens his rucksack and shows it to him.

‘Woof woof,’ Danny says, playfully jabbing his arm.

‘Catch you in photography,’ April calls after him, just as another train howls past the level crossing.

Will pretends he doesn’t hear her.

She must think I’m so fucking rude, he thinks.

Shoulders rigid and hands jammed in pockets, Will walks away.

And he is followed.

That Friday Feeling

Will rounds the corner into his nain’s road. The single working street light glows in the darkness, wobbling like a flower on a stalk as an onshore breeze kicks up over the beach in the distance. He passes an old caravan, slumped at the kerb on flat tyres that haven’t turned in years. The bungalow over the road has its glass front door held together with parcel tape.

This part of town is known as Patten’s Island, although it isn’t an island, and Mr Patten – the businessman who built it – had the good sense to bugger off a long time ago. An area of reclaimed marshland, surrounded by sea on two sides, hundreds of chalets line its grid of roads. Once a half-fashionable holiday destination, in recent decades the buildings fell first into disrepair, and then into the hands of private landlords, who do as little for their tenants as they can get away with. Fifty years ago, you might have seen the neighbourhood depicted on postcards, but these days you’re more likely to find it in one of those ‘crap towns’ sort of books, which a particular type of person is entertained by.