Sheanna held her spoon above the bowl. ‘I wasn’t sure if you were real,’ she said, to Matty.

Stomach. A strange tug.

‘Is Matty your real name?’

A nod wasn’t quite possible.

‘Sheanna.’ Joe crouched down by her knee. ‘Matty is …’ He dipped his head briefly, lifted it again. ‘Matty is also mine. Like you are.’ He touched her nose, a small, simple action. ‘From quite a while ago.’

She put her spoon down. ‘Yours and Dad’s?’

He almost glanced over, didn’t quite. ‘No, just mine. Remember I used to live in London?’

She nodded, her finger in her mouth.

‘Well, from then. Long before you.’

Told like it was a Jackanory story. Not a real one.

Sheanna turned her face to Matty’s, her eyes wide and bright. Recovered enough.

There was a shallow pond in the back part of the garden, with a grassy island in the middle and a plank of wood leading to it. A picnic table. Bullrushes the height of Sheanna.

Matty had pulled on the boots that Franklin had retrieved from the lough – the bike was now leaning against the back wall of the house – and found the packet of cigarettes. Drew deeply on one now, wanting the tar to blacken everything inside.

All this time. All this time.

He’d never wanted to be found.

There was a light, stuttering sound. A goat, white and bearded, was in a small, partly fenced area, bleating again at Matty, a slack-jawed chewing motion. Dead eyes.

Joe came round the corner of the house and walked slowly up to stand by Matty. He had a cup of tea in his hands, and held it out.

‘No, thanks.’

He faced the pond and then looked over, a surreptitious toe-to-head examination. ‘I can’t …’ He shook his head. ‘I can hardly take you in.’ A voice full of wonder. ‘You’re so tall.’

‘I’m not yours.’

He looked over properly.

‘I’m not yours.’

He went to say something, and instead set the cup down, straightening again with an odd, cautious grace. ‘I don’t know how you’re here. But you are. We’ve – there’s a lot to talk about.’

‘Who are they?’ The question felt bleached, desolate.

‘My—’ There was a quiet, charged breath. He looked at the reeds as if for an answer. Another breath. ‘My family. They’ve been my family.’

The bitter taste of the vomit was still there. ‘Yeah, I think you can live without me.’ Cigarette dropped, half-smoked. Stubbed out. Matty took a step away.

‘Please. Please don’t go. Not like this. Please wait.’

It had been ages. An hour, maybe, since leaving on the bike. More. They could be already looking, a search fanning out from Brigid’s house. ‘Is the doctor coming?’

‘Yeah, someone’s coming out. Perhaps she can check you out as well.’

‘I don’t need to be seen. I mustn’t be seen. By anyone.’