But there was something at the end of the concrete jetty. A small pile of clothes. Matty wiped away mucus from each side of the mouth and squinted out, breath heaving and loud.

There. Again. A slick brown head, but a flash of paleness. Two hands, high up. Something pink.

Matty dropped the bike and rucksack and ran down the jetty, getting rid of the coat, tugging off boots and socks, and jumped in.

The all-embracing cold. In and over the head, gasping into the air again. The water immediately slowed Matty, pulled at everything, sleeves, jeans.

A quick, thrashing front crawl, the water much colder than it had been a few weeks ago. Biting arms, chest.

Matty stopped, whirled around. She’d been about here. Hadn’t she? The water butted, shoved.

A bit further out, turning in a circle, more frantic.

There was a sudden glimpse of closed eyes and an open mouth before she dipped below the surface again. Matty propelled forward, dived under, hands out, desperate to touch something other than water, to touch something living.

Up. Another circle. Under again, fumbling, arms stretched as far as possible and sliding against something solid, skin, limp arms, something soft and mushy, and pulling, pulling her until they both broke free again.

Rolling over and clutching her close around her chest, Matty kicked them back to the jetty.

‘Sheanna.’

The little girl was on her back with her eyes closed.

‘Sheanna.’ A gentle slap to one cheek, and then the other. ‘Fuck.’

Drowning can occur in less than twenty seconds.

She was in a pink swimming costume and had one sodden white glove on. Purple socks.

Matty put the heel of one hand on her chest and gently pumped. One, two. Ten. Leaning into it, the full weight of the body. Fifteen. Thirty.

‘Come on, Sheanna.’

Forehead, tilted back. Chin, tilted up. Her nose pinched between two fingers. Small, cold lips. One breath. Her chest rose. Two breaths.

Drowning victims can last up to an hour in the water.

Compressions again. One, two. Five. Imagining her breastbone snapping. Nine—

Sheanna suddenly convulsed, her eyes screwing up, and coughed, the sound guttering and wet. As she coughed again, Matty was turning her over, and she vomited, clear water and a gruel-like liquid.

‘It’s OK. It’s OK.’

She blinked, and tried to lean up on an elbow, and vomited again, more of the same, onto Matty’s hand.

A tiny, rodent-like whimper.

‘You’re OK, mate. You’re out now, OK?’ Matty scrambled for the coat, wrapped it around her. Pulled off the single glove and the heavy, wet socks. Sheanna’s own clothes were in a neat pile on the concrete. ‘What were you doing?’

Her skin was horribly pale.

‘Sheanna, where’s your house?’

She began to cry.