“Is there any chance my lad Mattie could take half my shift?” Mike looked inexplicably uncomfortable, his gaze not quite meeting Donald’s, his hands deep in his pockets. “Not for what you pay me, obviously. A tenner at the end of the night’ll do him fine.”

Donald tried to recall Mattie. After a moment he remembered a tall inarticulate sixteen-year-old with a faint bloom of moustache and a terrible beanie hat, who had nevertheless kept the beer flowing through several stifling August afternoons.

“I don’t see why not.”

“You sure it’s okay? I’ve just got to be somewhere for a couple of hours, that’s all, but I can put it off.”

Donald grinned. “You got something special on?”

To Donald’s utter, utter surprise, a slow tide of dull crimson swept up Mike’s neck, and Mike turned away in a pointless pretence at adjusting the pumps, knocking a Heineken empty to the floor. The bottle bounced but didn’t break. Mike made a large pantomime of picking it up.

“Sorry about that,” he said, setting the bottle back on the bar.

“Don’t worry,” said Donald. He hesitated, then put a hand briefly on Mike’s shoulder. “Everything all right?” The closest two middle-aged men could come to inviting a confidence.

“Fine,” said Mike, his face wretched. “It’s just. You know.”

“Something medical?” Donald suggested.

“Something like that. Look, thanks. I really appreciate it.” He glanced desperately towards the cellar door. “Meant to say. The Doom Bar’s not pouring right. I’ll check the you-know.”

What was that about? Not his problem. Alicia was all right, that was what mattered. There was still the spectre of the unknown him, haunting the pages of the journal he’d glimpsed so briefly he could almost pretend he’d imagined it, but at least she wasn’t giving it away to anyone who crossed her path… dear God, why would he think that of his own daughter? How would it be his business if she did? No, all he had to worry about was how to pass the hours when he was supposed to be at the Cash and Carry, so Mike could convincingly earn his wage and not feel he was taking charity. Before he left, he went to clear the plates.

The conversation still turned on the surf and the currents and the joy of having the sea to themselves now the summer visitors had departed. The paradox of local living – wanting them to come so they’d spend their money, wanting them to go so they’d leave you in peace. One of them was speaking to him.

“Yes, mate.” Catching their habits of speech, an old instinctive trick to build rapport and soften up the subject. “What can I do for you?”

“Do you know anything about the mad couple who live in that wicked beach hut?”

A slow jeering roar. The young man made a yeah, yeah quieting gesture and kept his eyes on Donald. Donald forced himself breathe in, hold it, breathe out.

“What did you want to know?”