I stepped inside the tunnel, blocking out most of the day. The chill was immediate.

The first turn was just a few paces away. I didn’t have a torch. I didn’t need one.

Ahead, there was a whisper of light.

Someone was in the chamber. Sitting on the ground, legs out, a torch angled upwards. The metal heart that hung from the ceiling cradled in its beam.

‘Jim?’

No answer.

I said his name again and thought I heard something, very faint, a sound that could have come from way under the rock, hundreds of metres down. There was a heavy, sweet smell, almost like tree sap. I inched closer, my fingers against the cold wall.

‘Is it you?’ His voice was strange, molten.

I leant down, picked up the torch and shone it on him.

Jim’s palm was facing up. Arm and hand dark with blood.

‘No.’ I dropped the torch, scrabbled for it, swore.

Snapshots of him in the light. Head hanging to one side. Legs crossed, almost casual. Hunting knife. Bottle of whisky on its side by his thigh, a shallow well of amber left. Other arm resting limp in his lap. And red. Creeping puddles of red.

‘No,’ I said again, kneeling, lifting his arm by the elbow. Blood pulsed from his wrist. ‘Fuck.’ It came out as a juddering whimper.

Jim squinted at me and shut one eye, as if he’d just woken up. ‘What are you doing here?’ He hardly moved his mouth.

‘I know what happened,’ I said.

‘No.’ The word was slow, tired.

‘Listen to me. I know what happened. I know it was an accident. The swan. You never meant to. I’m sorry – I’m sorry.’ I swore again, digging my phone out. My hand was shaking. The light gave Jim’s cheek a blue glow.

No bars.

I heard him lick his lips with agonising effort. ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he said. ‘Should you?’ There was a slight upward inflection at the end. The whole cave smelled of whisky.

There was so much blood. A buzzing in my ears. I pulled at the laces of my boots, stood up and kicked them off, unbuttoning my shorts at the same time. The torch was shining on my ankles. ‘Yes, I should.’ I stepped out of the shorts and yanked my tights off.

‘You’re nice.’ A sleepy voice from the darkness.

The knife was by his far boot. I leant over, trying to avoid touching him, my nose running like mad. Pinning the torch between both knees, I sawed at the crotch of my tights. The material squeaked. I wrapped one of the legs tightly around his wrist, feeling the moisture soak in, trying not to cry. I could see the underside of some of his skin.

‘It’s too late,’ he said.

‘No, it’s not. Shut up.’

I sat on his legs, facing him, trying to slide the second piece of fabric under his arm, stretching the material as much as I could, tying the ends in a tense knot. His jeans were sticky. My breaths were the loudest thing. I couldn’t hear his.