A whistle, the sort a shepherd would give, and Matty jerked upright. There was a man standing by the fence with a small fluffy white dog. ‘You shouldn’t swim in there.’

Matty waited for Nicks to shout something back, but the man just beckoned again. ‘It’s dangerous.’

A swivel round in the water. Nicks wasn’t there. The water was flat and brown, the slightest sway. No ripples.

‘Excuse me. Can’t you hear me? There’s a sign, for goodness’ sakes.’

Where had he gone? He couldn’t have sunk down. You’d have heard something.

Matty breaststroked to the side and clambered out by the brambles, getting a few more leg-scratches on the way. A quick look back. Still no Nicks. Matty picked up the rucksack and walked to the fence towards the man, because there was no other way out.

The man didn’t have a dog on his lead but a long-haired white cat with blue eyes. ‘Bloody terror,’ he said. ‘You know people have drowned in there? Don’t tempt fate.’

‘OK.’ Matty didn’t look at him, climbing the fence awkwardly and avoiding his outstretched hand. The cat yowled and delivered the third variation of scratches for the day.

Nicks had just disappeared. Matty changed behind a tree and walked back past the boating lake, putting headphones on. Coins from Mamma’s purse had been enough to replace the ones that those big girls had taken, a second-hand pair from the electrical shop on the high street. Mamma never said anything about the money that kept disappearing.

Instead of turning right to climb the hill, Matty wandered back over to the low slope of grass outside the Pond where some men were hanging around, talking. Two of them were dancing, unbuttoned short-sleeved shirts floating by their sides.

There was Daz, wearing dungarees and no shirt, his muscles hard and rounded. The hair on his head was the same texture as the hair on his chest. He was arguing with a man who was lying down next to a boombox wedged in the grass. Daz looked around. ‘Oi oi oi, little diving bunny!’

Matty swiped a lock of drying hair to the side and looked over.

Daz was waving, madly.

Me? Matty mimed.

‘Yes, you, you wally. Get over here.’

Matty stepped onto the grass, rucksack straps clenched in each fist over the chest. You could feel the heat from everyone. Red skin. Brown skin. Freckles the colour of peanut butter sprinkled all over a wide slab of back, and lots of very sporty-looking men, sleek and muscled. What would it be like, to look like that? What would it feel like?

‘For the love of all that is good and right,’ Daz was putting his hands out, as if explaining something to a two-year-old. ‘There’s. No. Tune.’

Music was bursting tinnily from the boombox. ‘Brother,’ said the white man slouched next to it. ‘Your ears aren’t modern enough.’