‘I don’t know,’ she said, and smiled.

By the car park, Matty watched the water, white foam on it today. Thought of Dale in the form of a dog, spittle at the corners of his mouth.

Out towards the island, a mallard bobbed, untroubled by the waves. The bar on the side of its wing was the same colour as Brigid’s house.

No Sheanna. It was almost a disappointment. It was good to talk to someone different, even if she was a mad little thing. She made Matty think of the best kids in the camps, who weren’t always the tanned, sporty ones, but the quirky underdogs, a penchant for wisecracks or dancing their nerves out before being strapped into abseiling ropes. She’d made a change from Brigid, if nothing else.

It started sleeting.

‘Did you manage to get in today?’ Brigid said, later, coming in with a stack of box files.

Head-shake. The bitterness of it. The defeat. Matty took the boxes off her, though it still hurt to carry things.

‘Not a bother. I’m sure it will come back to you once you’re yourself again.’

How could you be yourself again when you’d half-killed someone?

‘You can help me with something if you like,’ she said, taking her handbag off her shoulder.

‘Yeah?’

‘Stuff for class tomorrow. How are you with scissors and glue?’ A warm, droll smile.

‘Yeah.’ A sigh, and an attempt at animation. ‘I’m great.’

The kids’ work was spread out on the table, some music put on. Poems to be mounted on red and green card. Brigid taught the top year, the age Matty was when Joe left. The poems were bright-eyed and Christmas-themed, the odd solemn attempt at winter darkness.

Brigid had put on a CD, sun-drenched Cuban stuff, all smoky back rooms, pianos and guitars and singing. Heather had the same album. ‘When you coming back?’ she’d said on the phone. ‘When I’ve found him,’ had been the answer.

Matty looked at Brigid, perfectly content with her large kitchen scissors, her apple-curve cheekbones prominently shadowed, moving her shoulders to the music. Not caring about her fortnight-long houseguest.

‘Do you want me to go?’ The words quiet.

She was absorbed in lining up a poem. ‘Where?’

‘Go. You know.’ Back to cutting the card. ‘I feel like I’m taking the piss now.’

‘No. You’re still recovering. And I like having you here.’ She glanced over. Spoke more softly. ‘You know I do.’

Skin, rashing into goosebumps in the gentlest way. Brigid had seen everything, in the bathroom that first awful night. Had allowed Matty to just be.

The track changed, more joyful, a sashaying trumpet. They cut up the final poems in silence.

When it was finished, Matty stood up. ‘Shall I make a cup of tea?’

Brigid smiled. ‘That’d be lovely.’

Houseboy, then.

‘I’ll come with you.’