The girl had her hand on her hip, was waggling back and forth, as she continued. ‘You can brush my hair, undress me everywhere-er-ere.’

Matty sat on top of the picnic table, feeling the familiar dynamic from the activity camps, though this kid was younger. Sometimes they got quite besotted with the staff, doing anything to get attention, leaving them hand-drawn cards with adoring messages and lots of kisses. THANK YOU MATTY YOU ARE AWESOME! I’m never going to be afraid again! It was always pretty sweet. ‘I don’t think mermaids sing that sort of stuff.’

‘What do you think they sing, then? Do you think it’s something like … Mariah Carey? I bet they can’t sing as high as her.’ She let out a pearling mouse-squeak.

‘Nope.’

‘Modern mermaids might, though,’ she said, pertly pleased with herself.

‘Yeah, yeah. Hadn’t you better be off now?’

‘Why?’

‘Didn’t your folks tell you not to talk to strangers?’ They’d do workshops about it in the camps, the kids all sat round in pyjamas, sleepy after a day outdoors, being told about the nasty, oblique things that might happen if they didn’t follow the rules or pray to Jesus.

‘My daddy talks to everyone.’

Maybe there was a different rule in Ireland.

‘Do you think the world is going to end?’ she said, her hands still on her hips.

‘No.’ I want it to.

‘Because of New Year’s Eve, I mean. With the—’ Sheanna stopped suddenly and frowned, her next words coming carefully and slowly. ‘Minnellium Bug and everything. All the computers are going to blow up. Are you real?’ She had a bright, sparrowish look.

Her rapid changes of subject were a little dizzying. ‘Are you?’

‘Course I’m real. Look.’ Sheanna pushed up the sleeve of her coat and plucked at her bare skin, hard, between two fingers. ‘Ow.’ It was patched, pale brown and a much paler pinkish-white.

‘Don’t do that.’

‘Look,’ she said, keeping her sleeve bunched up to her elbow, forearm shoved very close. ‘It’s called vitiligo. Girls at school call me giraffe.’

‘They’re little shits, then.’

Sheanna looked over with scandalised delight. ‘You have to give me twenty pee.’

‘What?’

‘Twenty pee. For swearing. For my biscuit tin.’

‘Your biscuit tin?’

‘My swearing biscuit tin. When my daddy swears, he has to give me money. It’s the rule. I’d better go. I live just up there.’ She pointed vaguely, the houses placed far apart along the single track road, all facing the lough. ‘We’re having fish finger sandwiches.’ She got back on her bike.

Matty rode home with Come on Barbie let’s go party on mental repeat, the bright, plasticky words getting tangled up with Dale’s voice.

Brigid was in the kitchen, her hair wet. She straightened as Matty came in. ‘Did you have a nice ride somewhere?’

The kitchen smelt malted, sugary. The oven fan buzzed.