No one says anything, and then Dad starts to sob. I can’t remember ever seeing my father cry before; not even when Ruby-May died, not even when our mother left. It’s horrible, as if each tear has to be forcefully and painfully dredged up from some deep recess in his body. Amy reaches across me and takes my father’s hand. He holds hers tightly, enclosing it in both of his, just as he did when she was a child. He lets go and fumbles for a handkerchief, which is where he always keeps one: in his breast pocket. He rubs his eyes and blows his nose.

‘My mind… No one likes to think they’re losing their mind.’ He bows his head and his whole body shakes. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m so sorry.’

Matt wipes a tear away with the back of his hand and sniffs. ‘Nothing will ever bring her back, but it’s all we wanted you to say.’ He strokes Amy’s shoulder. ‘Any help you need – medication, lift to the clinic – we’re here for you.’

A whisper of the old Matt, I think. My sister nods and reaches for her husband. They cling to each other.

I move the wine glass away from my father, and Bethany, her eyes swimming with tears, takes it from me and tips the contents onto the parched earth.

Maybe, I think, looking round at my siblings, we can start to heal; maybe our family is going to be okay.

21

NICK

That night I dream I’m falling, dark shapes crush me and I can’t breathe. I wake, wet with sweat, the sheets tangled round my knees, clutching at the empty air. I lie still for a moment, waiting for my heart to stop racing, telling myself it was only the dream – the recurring one I’ve had ever since the day Bethany nearly killed me.

As my heart rate returns to normal, I remember what has been troubling me all evening: Matt and Bethany said Dad had drunk most of a bottle of red wine; Amy insisted it was cider brandy. I suppose they would tell me not to get hung up on details – the point is, they’d say, if I asked them, that he was drunk when he was meant to be looking after their child. And if I pressed her, Amy would tell me to stop going on about it, because Dad has admitted he was in the wrong and that he has dementia, and that’s why he couldn’t remember he wasn’t meant to be drinking. Old habits are hard to break. I sit up and the hairs on the back of my neck prickle.

Something has woken me or, rather, someone.

There is someone here.

I stare into the darkness. The room resolves into shades of shale and slate. I let my breath out slowly. I can’t see anyone here, hiding in the shadows.