On the street I walked first and Carral followed, as if she needed to trace my footsteps. It was the first time I’d brought her out, and the first time in a while that she’d left the flat.

‘It’s cold,’ she said, and shivered a little.

The asphalt felt easy and smooth under my feet, everything was firm and dry out here in comparison with the clammy warm air in the brewery. But even though Aybourne’s streets still led to the same places, and the old brick buildings housed the same shops and offices, something felt different that night with Carral. When we crossed the little clearing by City Hall, I saw the sundial, elevated above the crisp winter grass, and the bare pale clock face reminded me of the honey mushroom by the bathtub rim. A few minutes later we walked past the hostel where I’d stayed during my very first days in Aybourne. The windowpanes looked dirty, as though they had grown shut. On the other side of the road was the sea, quiet as ice.

Our walk ended at the student bar. I introduced Carral to Franziska and the other biology students, and she briefly told everyone about herself:

‘I have a BA, but at the moment I mostly work temp jobs in offices,’ she said. ‘It’s boring but I kind of don’t know what I want yet. There’s just so much that interests me.’

She seemed amazingly normal in comparison to how I saw her at home. Curled up on the sofa pillows in the daytime or hugging me tightly at night. She seemed more alert and healthy than in the brewery.

‘You live in Hawthorn, right?’ Franziska asked politely. Carral nodded. ‘In the old brewery.’

‘I didn’t think anyone lived there,’ Leigh said, a girl from my genetics class with dark hair and high leather boots.

‘Yeah sure, just not that many,’ I said.

‘I hear it’s haunted,’ Leigh whispered.

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah, my boyfriend was in that house once, before it was renovated. He said it was haunted …’

‘Are you saying we’re ghosts?’ Carral smiled attentively.

‘No, no, but maybe you’ve seen some?’ Franziska said.

‘Apparently a girl died there,’ said Leigh, ‘the brewery owner’s daughter, I think. They say she fell in a tank and drowned … in beer.’

Carral started laughing, louder than usual, so loud that I ended up watching her.

‘I’ve heard that story too. It’s pretty crazy,’ she said.

‘Tragic, too,’ said Franziska, watching me with her serious German eyes.

‘I actually thought I’d seen that drowned girl a couple of times,’ Carral said with round eyes. ‘But every time it just turned out to be Little Jo.’

She put her arm around my shoulder.

Later I was standing in the bar with Franziska. She’d put on make-up. Her cheeks were red, as though she’d rubbed a Pink Lady apple against her skin.