‘Now I see why you were so keen to join the party, Parks,’ Alfie says, eyeing both the enormous residence and the girls of about their age dressed in leopard-print catsuits, Lara Croft hot pants, and Rocky Horror stockings and suspenders.

‘Why let everyone else have all the fun?’ Will keeps his tone as breezy as he can, hoping to dodge any grilling on the matter of why he’s been so keen for them to get involved with this party in particular.

‘I’ve created a monster,’ Alfie says, jabbing Will’s arm.

It’s the end of the half-term break and the two of them have spent most evenings together this past week. Sometimes Will has kept Alfie company on his ‘rounds’, or, on slow nights, they’ve been to Smugglers, where they can get served at the bar without question. These things, which had once seemed so risky to Will, have lost their teeth now. A little faith has crept up on him – a belief that if he was putting himself, or anyone else, in danger, he’d already know.

‘Not sure we’re fitting in, though,’ Will says, noticing how several of the revellers on the front lawn keep looking over at him and Alfie.

‘They’re just jealous of the car.’

‘Yeah, that’s it.’ Will laughs as he checks out the row of brand-new Mini convertibles and white Audis in front of Alfie’s ancient BMW with its DIY matt-black paint job.

‘No one would guess I’m the drug dealer, would they?’

‘Must be doing something wrong.’

‘Something wrong? Me?’ Alfie reaches under the passenger seat for his Tesco bag of merchandise, ready-packaged to fill the host’s order plus a little extra stock for spontaneous purchases. He picks a small paper envelope open, tipping a little powder on to the back of his hand, which he noisily snorts. ‘A livener,’ he says.

‘What happened to just doing the dust off the scales?’ Will asks with a grin.

Alfie waves away the question. ‘Even the air smells better round here,’ he says as he swings his door open and sets foot on the immaculate lawn. ‘It’s like all the dead fish wash up in Ebbswick and these rich fuckers get lovely fresh sea air.’

The party is only three miles outside of town, but they are in a different world from Patten’s Island at the other end of the marsh road. These aren’t houses, Will thinks, these are ‘properties’.

In the gap between this glass-and-golden-timbered residence and its neighbour, he can see the moonlit private beach, the immaculate sailing boats and speedboats anchored perfectly in line around the cove.

Partygoers with public-school accents are grouped on the front porch, smoking and taking pouting selfies. They huddle round one phone. ‘Put it on Lauren’s Story,’ someone orders. ‘Halloween Beach Party group,’ she yells for the benefit of everyone out on the front lawn.