When he spoke, the words only half came out. ‘Have you seen her?’

He meant since I’d been up here, these last two days. I shook my head. He blinked, the little dawn curves vanishing, reappearing.

‘Maybe she’s gone now,’ I said. We lay there, not touching. ‘Maybe she understood.’

His lips moved, a small, dry sound. Neither of us spoke for ages.

‘Why did I never see her?’ he said.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Why did you?’

‘I’m mixed up with her, somehow,’ I said. He took in a weighted breath. ‘You know I am.’

‘How is that possible?’

‘I don’t know. Our names rhyme. And things happened, didn’t they? Not quite the same way, but – the swan wings, and’ – I swallowed, hardly daring to say it – ‘the shooting, and everything.’ Part of my story was up here, like Gran-gran had said.

‘How did you know?’ he said, with aching quietness. ‘I never told anyone …’ He still couldn’t do it. Couldn’t put what seemed so unreal into words. A swan, turning back into a girl.

‘Johnny told me.’

He went very still. ‘Johnny?’

‘He saw it. He saw what happened. He never said anything to anyone.’

I could see his confusion and a slow fury mixed thickly in with it. He moved a hand over his forehead, as if to rub away what I’d just said.

I knew he wouldn’t have it out with him. Because all those years ago Jim had wanted to hurt himself, to take the blame. Maybe Johnny testifying wouldn’t have helped. It would have made it look like collusion.

I dared myself to ask. To draw away his anger. ‘What was she like?’

It was a long time before he spoke, but when he did, his voice was low and unfogged. ‘A dreamer.’ He turned towards me, a distant look on his face, as if half of him was back there, twenty years ago. ‘She liked stories, and making stuff, and thinking of all the places she’d go. She wanted to travel. Made me want to.’ He shifted, put a hand on his stomach. ‘She liked music, like you.’

She was just a girl, I told myself. She had just been a girl. ‘The stuff I like?’

‘Well, no. Maybe. Indie guitar stuff. The Stone Roses, people like that.’

‘I like the Stone Roses.’

‘There you go, then.’

I wondered if he’d told anyone about Molly, any of the guys in prison, the psychologists, or if all his thoughts of her had remained closed up, locked in that little metal heart, until now. ‘How did you meet?’

Jim gazed at me, his eyes two dark pools that never got the sun. His ribs rose and fell, once, heavily. And I let him tell me their story.

Afterwards he seemed drained. A strange shiver – and he was never cold.

I folded my arms underneath me and rested my head on both hands. ‘You should go. Away from here.’

I imagined my words sinking down inside him, looking for the bottom. ‘Where,’ he said. It didn’t sound like a question.