Ahead, the torch picked out the glint of barbed wire. As she waded towards it, her left foot dropped into something. A fox hole? A badger sett? She fell forward, lunging for something, anything, and grabbed the fence. Her heart and stomach lurched. The wire cut into her and she screamed out, pain jarring through her hand and arm. She dropped down, pitching forward into the freezing water. Spluttering, she came up. Leaning gingerly on the wire, she inspected her hand by the light of the moon. A small tear, beads of blood. It was nothing much but, God, how it stung. Tears sprung to her eyes. How she wished, then, that she hadn’t come out here. She could be with Jack now. Oh God, why had she ever left the dance? Her stomach was still fluttering as if there was a bird inside, flapping to get out.

‘Peter!’ she cried, her voice breaking on the word. There was no answer. Without logic or thought a word tore from her throat: ‘Jack!’

*

Arthur sucked in the smoke and held it in his throat, feeling its warmth before blowing it out, slowly so as not to lose it too fast. They were smoking two of Jack’s last Camels under the porch of the Golden Fleece at the top of Station Road, dirty water still up to their ankles. They’d taken an old woman who’d lost sight of her husband to the rescue centre, and had left the rowing boat down near the quayside. He knew it was past midnight as a policeman had told him. The worst must be over, surely. The tide had long since turned and the flood must be beyond the highest point. But there was no hope of going home. His bones ached and his feet and hands were numb. He glanced at the figure next to him. He was ashamed of the pettiness of his rivalry, standing with Jack now. Jack would leave, go back to America. There was no proof that anything had happened between him and Verity. They would forget about him. He thought of her, that morning, her cold skin against his. For all of the awkwardness of it, she had done it for him.

Jack breathed out a plume of smoke and said, ‘We need to get out to the farm. Pete loves the farm. You saw that pig. He’d be devastated if they all go and die on him.’

‘They don’t have pigs, Jack. They have cattle. Arable. Can’t do anything about that, it’s too late.’

‘Art.’

‘Don’t call me that.’