‘It’ll be a lot colder where I’m going.’ A slanted smile, the flash of old fox in the tiredness, as a blanket came round his shoulders.

They’d sat watching the sky steal the silver from the lough. ‘I’m sorry, Matty. For everything.’

He’d said it, over and over. It was never quite enough. ‘I had to do it all on my own.’

‘I know.’ A gull came across, a loutish call. ‘Will you forgive me?’

A moment that might have been a pose for a painting. The younger, looking out at the water for a long time. The older, turned towards his child, watching.

‘Yeah,’ said Matty.

***

He’d insisted on being at home. Had said that he didn’t care how terrible he looked or sounded, that he would clean up his own mess until the mess stopped. It wasn’t quite true. Franklin had done most of it, but Matty had been there more than once, turning him over, a wad of tissues in a fist, or watching the yellowish liquid drain from his lungs through the tube in his chest, holding the bottle. They’d had trips to hospital, but he’d always demanded his own bed, no matter how dizzy he was, no matter that he couldn’t sit up any more.

July. The doctor had come, and said in a low voice that it wouldn’t be too much longer. A day or two. Sheanna was taken round to a friend’s house, clutching her orca toy.

Death had been slow, meandering. One thing into another.

In the final days, his sentences shortened, theatrical weight between them. ‘I used to imagine. What you’d be like,’ he said, immobile on his back. ‘How tall. What your hair. Would be like. And it’s funny. Because it might have gone different ways. But. You’re exactly what I imagined.’ A long space between his in-breath, and his exhale. ‘I’m proud of you, Matty. Of what you’ve. Become.’

‘I haven’t become anything. I’ve not done anything.’

His head moved from side to side on the pillow, a great effort. ‘You’ve become. Yourself. You’re better. In your skin. Than I have been.’

‘I’m not.’ Only in water.

‘You are. You are.’

On one of the last evenings, he fumbled for Matty’s hand. His skin was near-translucent, blue blotches like water under the surface. ‘Sheanna. She’s besotted. Please,’ he said, and didn’t need to say more.

Matty couldn’t say yes, and couldn’t say no.

‘You bastard,’ he said, into the darkness.

Matty sat up. ‘Me?’

‘He is. She is.’ He nodded, and his eyes looked luminous. ‘This Death character.’ His ribs rose, the words pushed out on hard-earned air. ‘What a miserly cunt. Loads of old fuckers here. Still knocking around. Aged. A hundred and five.’

Matty’s laugh was a painful rush of breath, nothing more.