Even an experienced swimmer could get the fear. Dark, ungiving water, a new spot – you never quite knew what was in there. You didn’t have to be a child to imagine a mutant beast lumbering up from below. And there was always drowning. Getting a cramp, or having a heart attack, the body struck dumb by the cold. Lungs, filling. Houdini, thrashing and failing. The trick was to breathe, slow and methodical, to focus on the stroke and nothing else. There was nothing else.

The lough tasted of iron. It was far warmer down here in the valley, the tall mountains compact with woodland on the lower edges. Matty stayed close to the shore, near the dark paint of the pine trees’ shadows, not going too fast. Heart finding its equilibrium, the slowest of hip-hop beats.

A long swim, just occasionally looking ahead to check the course. Each breath revealing a side-shot of black water and torn hill.

And back. Breaststroke always felt weird in a wetsuit, but it was good to take in the view for a few moments, the ridiculousness of scale, the scalped look of the upper mountains. Clouds moving as fast as the water. Then head down again, face beginning to numb.

The motorbike had gone.

This pub had rooms. In the main bar area, there were red velour seats, worn away in places, and a high-beamed roof. A small harp on a windowsill and some generic Irish folk-rock playing in the background. It was quiet, just a few couples and a family with a kid and balloons tied to her chair.

The motorcyclist was at the bar, chatting to the girl there and pointing at some of the bottles behind her, his gestures expansive. One big motorbike boot on the low rail. He glanced over. Matty ordered a jacket potato with beans and a Coke from the other side of the bar and picked up a local paper to take to a corner table. Flicked through articles about a sailing club, a man falling off a pier, a baby winning the chance to be on the side of yoghurts. The food arrived. Brown sauce. A waiter came out with a cake spiked with sparklers and the kid’s face lit up as her parents and brother started singing.

Those sorts of birthdays had stopped aged eleven. ‘Happy birthday, tiger.’ A ruffle of hand in hair and a large, slim present chucked onto the duvet that could only be one thing. One wheel exposed. ‘One from me. Don’t tell your mamma. Take you out for a spin on it later, OK?’

The family of the kid finished singing and everyone in the room clapped.

Every February after that, Matty would wake, stare at the ceiling as the realisation of the date came slowly in, hear his voice. Happy birthday, tiger.