She tears herself away, and hurries to catch them up. ‘Yes, sorry, on my way.’

Leon

The waxing crescent moon is visible through the bay window where Leon sits, his mind whirring. What the hell is he doing here with Alice? It took everything for him to walk away when she ended things, yet here he is, back where he started, and not only that; this time he’s keeping a terrible secret.

The bar is deserted apart from Gabriela. The others have taken off on the ridiculous tour of this pretentious house. He rises to his feet, grabs his jacket from the back of his chair, and slips it on. He needs air, needs to think, outside – alone.

Well-placed lanterns and a string of bulbs brighten the patio, but their beam doesn’t reach far, and the crescent moon is scuppered by passing clouds. A neat lawn stretches towards a fenced-off cliff edge. The wind is fierce now, howling through the surrounding mature trees. The sound of the sea crashing against the rocks below is atmospheric.

Leon breathes in the cold air, the sensation organising his thoughts. He thinks about Tegan. Their friendship, because that’s all it was – he had never promised her anything more. But still she clung to him like a barnacle to a boat – always calling and texting. Had he been wrong to allow that friendship, knowing how she felt about him, knowing she seemed unstable? Had he let it go on too long, hoping she would take on his book? He hated that it could be true. And now she’s confided in him, told him things he doesn’t want bashing about in his head. Things he doesn’t know how to tell Alice. Things he must tell the police.

He heads down the sloping lawn, carried partly by the wind, trying to unclutter his head. He stops yards from the edge and squints out to sea. The lights from the mainland silhouette a boat bobbing some way out on the rough waves. He moves his gaze towards the empty jetty, where lanterns swing to and fro. A gust of wind takes hold of one of the pumpkins, spins it into the air, and out to sea. The boat they travelled to the island in has slipped its mooring. It looks as though they are stuck on the island until midday tomorrow, when the tide goes out, so he’ll have to make the most of it. These are the moments he craves a cigarette – wishes he hadn’t given up five years ago.

He flicks on his phone torch. The fence that hems the foot of the lawn is flattened in places. He steps back. The wind is fierce. He will struggle if it catches him in its grip. It could take him over the edge. He would never survive the fifty-foot drop.

He looks at his phone. Reads again the message Tegan sent him a few days ago: