The trees ended and he propped his bike where the path met the beginning of the saltmarsh. She tied Gyps up and patted his side. The line of the path headed straight ahead, soon dwindling and then disappearing on the horizon, and across the expanse of grasses, rushes and bog, and the glitter of creeks like veins on the skin of the marsh. As they walked, she thought he must be taking her to the beach, but as the grey sea grew closer, she saw a small thicket of stunted trees to the left of the path and she knew he was taking her there. Sprouting up from the marsh, the clump of trees was gnarled and twisted from years of seastorms. The track was barely wide enough for their feet. He walked ahead and she followed. It was impossible not to observe him, not to be snared by the way he moved, even here in a foreign place, on land that was hardly land, as if it was easy and natural to him. She kept her eyes on his sauntering figure ahead of her and could not have stopped her feet.

Behind the little copse was a rickety wooden shack, hidden from the road by the lone outcrop of old hawthorn trees.

‘Is this it? Why have you brought me here?’ A wave of panic shivered through her, an image of herself alone in the dark flashed into her head. It was silly and irrational but no one knew she was there.

‘Hey, it’s not that bad. It’s not what you think…’ He started to laugh and she realised she must look horrified.

‘What are you laughing at? It’s not funny. You don’t know what I think.’

‘You should see your face.’ His laugh slowed and stopped. He came up to her and, in a swift movement that caught her out, touched her hair.

She froze, her scalp vibrating from the touch.

He took her gloved hand. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘this is the place I wanted to show you in the summer.’