Matty had a coffee, the milk separating into scraggy flecks, staring at the surname. A scratchy throat, itchy ribs, lower stomach throbbing. No squats today. No weights.

Good old Heather. Most of Rosa’s things had been sold, given away. But Matty had kept the box of cards and photos, stashed in a plastic tub underneath Heather’s sofa. Turned out Auntie Maureen was one of those who liked to put their name on the back of the envelope, even if she had no fixed address.

Matty turned the paper over, flicked through. An Irish football school tournament. One of the guys from Westlife coming back to turn on the Christmas lights in his hometown.

And travellers, trespassing on a farmer’s land.

Sanitary towels next to the popcorn and Skittles on the conveyer belt, not looking at the cashier. They might be for someone else. For three days every month it was a wound that needed to be dealt with, as cursorily as possible.

It would still be all right to swim, just about. Keep things quick, hope for the blood to only come when upright and on land again. The wetsuit kept the towel in place.

Matty never put anything up there. That wasn’t happening.

It had arisen with Heather one night, a confession after too much cider. ‘You’ve not even ever used a tampon?’ Eyes widening. ‘Bloody hell.’ She’d poured more red wine into her medieval-style goblets with a baffled silence. ‘Look, you tyke,’ she said eventually, sitting back. There’s plenty of room.’ She’d crooked her little finger. ‘Start small. Get a box of minis. You won’t feel a thing.’

The drizzle was tangible and fast-moving. Matty had left Shifty up at the top of the lane by a new estate, the flats compact and unimaginatively built, and followed a bumpy path until the site came into view.

There wasn’t much rubbish, despite what the old survivalist had said. It was a broad expanse of yellowish scrubland, the curved ridges of a corrugated barn roof visible in the next field. Six modern caravans formed a broadly hexagonal shape with a firepit in the centre, the wood black and sodden. One of the caravans had cardboard in place of glass in most of the windows. There were two cars parked close together, and a much older one, rusting and wheel-less, on bricks. No one seemed to be around.

Matty hovered at the gate to the field. Didn’t seem right to go in. It felt strange, and sacred. The wind was quieter down here, the mist hanging in fine patches.