Con had run out of conversation topics. Together they watched the waves. The chink of cutlery came from nearby tables, the smell of coffee and roasted meat and eggs, birdsong and insects and murmurs and laughter and a sudden, balmy breeze.

‘Dad?’ came a tremulous girl’s voice.

For a split second, it was like Murphy was hanging from that cliff again.

The table crashed to the ground, cups and cutlery flying, coffee spilling everywhere, as Murphy lurched to his feet.

It was Jasmine. She stood on the deck, a few steps away.

He had one moment to take her in.

She had long ginger dreadlocks, a tanned and freckled face with her piercing blue eyes, a vibrant green dress with a pattern of tropical leaves and flamingos. She wore a canvas shoulder bag, cheap sunglasses on her head.

And then Murphy had crossed the empty space and crushed her into his chest.

She was alive.

She was gloriously, undeniably alive.

He felt her warmth, smelled the scent of her, sunscreen and shampoo, her fragility, the sound of her happy sobs as she nestled against him, back where she belonged, safe and safe and safe.

He made soothing sounds, tasting his own salty tears as they rolled through his beard and into his mouth.

‘You’re hurting me,’ she chuckled, voice thick with tears. She pulled away.

He held her at arm’s length and studied her intently, seeing his own hands shaking. The lightness in her eyes, clear of teenage awkwardness, clear of even that shadow of grief that had haunted her since Sara’s death. The fullness in her face. Healthy and happier than he’d ever seen, at peace.

His anger was still pushed down for the moment, for putting him through so much, for the audacity of being alive and not telling him for a whole year. His heart was soaring, the sight of her was so bright it almost hurt.

Behind him, Con swore softly, over and over.

‘Jasmine —’ croaked Murphy.

‘How bad was the worry?’ she cut him off. ‘Was it bad? I didn’t think about it at the time, but now I realise . . . it was too late, though. I had to see it through!’ Her blue eyes flashed with fervour. ‘It was important, Dad.’

She twisted her arm, to show him the tattooed text down the outside edge of her forearm: Permission to do what it takes.

The bottom fell out of Murphy’s stomach. He knew that phrase now, after everything Con had found out about Eliza.

‘Do you like it?’ said Jasmine. ‘It’s something Miss Ellis taught us. I can’t wait to see her. If anyone from school actually wants to see me.’

She doesn’t know, realised Murphy, but it was a distant thought.

Jasmine was alive, and healthy, and here with him.

That was the single most important fact of his entire existence, the fulcrum of his reality.

Jasmine is here.