Clouds move fast across the sky, concealing then revealing the moon in snatches. He hears the sea in the distance, a rumble as it crashes against the jagged rocks of the Cape. He turns right, away from the coast, and walks towards the centre of St Just. He passes the pub and hears the voices inside. Laughter. Warm yellow light spills through the netted window and falls across the pavement. The smell of chips and beer creeps out from the gap beneath the door. He crosses the road. Shoves his hands in his pockets. Walks up to the church and through the opening in the granite wall. The wooden gate rests permanently open, its loose hinges in need of fixing, a faded sign pinned to it requesting nobody touch it.

He walks along the path around the church. His feet crunch on the gravel. There’s enough light to make out the rough shapes of the headstones either side of him. He walks across the grass, picks his way between the graves, knows the route well enough to avoid tripping. He comes to a halt beside his father’s grave. Pulls out his tobacco. Rolls and lights a cigarette. It crackles as he inhales, the tip of the cigarette flaring momentarily and turning everything else black.

He stands and stares at the grave. The moon is full and in spite of the clouds there’s enough light to make out the jar of fresh flowers, a mixture of heather and cow parsley and one or two carnations she’s bought from the store. She refreshes the jar every week. Takes it home to wash it out. Scrubs away the grime and dirt. A pointless ritual that he imagines she’ll never stop doing.

Why are you so angry?

He winces as he recalls her voice. The look on her face. Why had he shouted at her like that? Used such filthy language? None of it is her fault. He hates himself for taking it out on her. Needling her. She doesn’t deserve it.

All he has to do is take care of them. His mother, his sister, his crumbling grandfather. One promise he made. Instead he wastes his days, unemployed, sleeping and rolling joints, while his mum runs two jobs, bags beneath her eyes, blisters on her fingers.

I promise.

He promised. That’s what he did – when they put his father in the ground, clods of soil falling on the coffin, their thuds drowned out by the sobs of those gathered around – he promised. He rolls another cigarette and lights it from the first, then flicks the end into the longer grass that fringes a neighbouring grave.

He watches the ember burn to nothing.

I promise I’ll look after them.

Lies. Empty lies. He feels his father’s disapproval seeping up though the cold damp earth. He wants to cry but what good would that do?