He stares at his hands. He’s showered off the dirt. It took over half an hour, but it’s still there, in the grooves of his fingernails. There are dry, hairline fractures of mud running through them. Impossible to get out. He stuffs his hands into his shorts pockets. His dirty clothes are in a carrier bag in his suitcase. He intends to throw them, somehow, somewhere.

‘Text her, then,’ Lydia says.

He can’t deal with this, being under the spotlight of Lydia’s gaze. There’s so much to think of. To work through.

‘There were two police down at breakfast – not sure why. I was worried,’ she adds.

Joe steadies himself on the bed, palms out. It’s lower than he thought, and he stumbles slightly as he does it. ‘What police?’ he says, clearing his throat. He coughs. Lydia looks at him strangely. Why the fuck are the police out so soon? William hasn’t even been dead for twelve hours. Has he been reported missing already? Or – worse – been found?

Joe wants to look at himself in the mirror. The paranoia stepped into the shower with him, and now it won’t let him go. What if there’s dried blood on his forehead? Just at the hairline? It would be easy to miss.

He goes into the bathroom. He’ll wax his hair.

As his brown eyes meet his reflection’s, he tells himself he hasn’t done anything wrong. He’s cleaned up somebody else’s mess, that’s all. He’s helped his little sister. He hasn’t killed anybody. He looks at himself. Hooked nose. Large eyes. Clean face. No blood. No soil. Nothing. He holds the blue metallic tin of wax in his hand.

Is he a hero or a villain? Has he protected his sister from harm, or has he orchestrated other crimes? He looks away from his own intense gaze. He doesn’t know, can’t decide. ‘What police?’ he says again to Lydia, his tone imbued with what he hopes is a curious casualness.

‘The ones with the hats,’ she says. ‘The black hats and suits with the red stripe down their sides.’

‘Oh, right,’ Joe tries to say casually, rubbing wax into his hair. What if William had told somebody exactly where he was heading? It would be so easy to find the grave if you knew …

Lydia meets his eyes in the mirror. She has pale brown freckles across her nose, hardly noticeable unless you’re very close. ‘I said I wasn’t sure where you were.’

‘You what?’ Joe says. He turns around to face her, the cold basin cutting into the backs of his thighs.

‘I didn’t know where you were,’ Lydia says. She leans over and grabs some concealer, starts rubbing it underneath her eyes. ‘I’m tired and old,’ she moans. ‘And I look it. An old crone. With old ovaries.’

Joe tries to steady his breathing. He’s got to act normally. This is his life now. Filtering every action, every word. He gazes at the clean sink. The taps are gleaming. Lydia must have wiped them. She’s so neat. He finds it comforting. She would never be involved in something as messy as killing. As messy as dead bodies.