Everything in his body is screaming at him to get out, get his leg out from under the trailer, but each time he moves to do it, pangs of pain spear up his arms to hit him, reverberating, in his chest and throat; and still he slides slowly into deeper water. He throws his head back and puckers his lips as high as they’ll go and sucks in a breath and then he’s under, closing his eyes against the salt instinctively and his head throbs with the cold or the pain, or both.

He’s almost floating. If he can just get his leg free …

He tries to tug at it, but his wrists flop uselessly like the sleeves of an old coat. The pain that spikes through his arms is so shocking he gasps and as the air bursts from his mouth water rushes in. It burns as it presses down his throat and he coughs but there’s nothing to cough with but water pressing and he thinks: I might—

That afternoon, the weather sets in. A sheet of drizzle shimmers against the window, bending in on the light easterly breeze which ruffles the bay coarse. The hold the low pressure system out in the Tasman had over them has faded as a high pressure system, which had been churning slowly above South Australia, moves across and scoops them into its sway. It’s forecast to sit stagnant, fanning a slow, dreary easterly across the island for days. Zach disappeared home at some point in the late morning, and in the early afternoon, Jem drags himself from bed and grunts to Lucy that he’s heading west to dive for a few days. It’ll be calm on that coast, easy to get into spots that normally heave and churn with swells from the west. Rich pickings on the abalone front, might get a surf in, too. He kisses her on the cheek and promises that they’ll talk when he gets home.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, as he gently closes the door.

She’s still at her computer, working, a couple of hours later when there’s a knock on the front door. She pads down the hallway in thick socks and opens the door to Mitch Saunders, who’s standing on their veranda in the swirling grey drizzle, in uniform and looking grim.

‘Mitch. G’day,’ she says.

‘Lucy,’ he says, nodding his head by way of greeting. ‘Can I come in?’

‘Sure.’ She moves to make way for him, in what feels like a re-enactment of last night.

He marches straight down the hall to the kitchen. She scurries after him.

‘Here on official business,’ he states and plonks himself down at the table.

‘Righto then,’ she says. She’s not quite sure what to do, so she sits opposite him and her kitchen morphs into an interrogation room as he gazes steadily at her, as if waiting for her to speak. She has no idea what to say, what he’s doing here, so she says nothing. The silence is excruciating.