‘I know he has a son,’ Jem says quietly. ‘You want to know how I know? You remember those people I told you about around the Regatta Day long weekend? After we’d found those half-dead seals? You remember how I told you that when I had a chat with them they squirmed like worms? They’d already filleted the fish the kid caught so no one would see? You remember that? Well, that’s the bloke who, who …’ his voice chokes, and he pauses to garble in a deep breath, before continuing. ‘You know them, Lucy. They’re fucking rednecks from Doo Town. You would’ve seen them around. And Mitch found a gun in their boat and it was them that time. I know it was them.’

‘You know what, Jem? You said to me at the time that it couldn’t have been them who left those seals—that the seals must have been shot a couple of days earlier, at least.’

‘But I know they did something! I know they’re the type; they’re the problem.’

‘They’re the problem? Fucking hell, Jem! That makes it sound like you did it on purpose. Like you’re on some kind of crusade to exterminate “their kind”. It’s fucked, Jem. It’s fucked.’

‘Lucy.’ He drags in a big, shuddering breath. ‘You know I didn’t do it on purpose. You know I didn’t mean for that to happen.’

‘Do I, though?’

Anguish tugs his lips in a direction she’s never seen them go before. ‘You do,’ he insists quietly.

She sighs. He’s right. She knows he didn’t mean for anyone to die. But it still doesn’t make it okay.

He must see a thread of something like acquiescence weave its way into her facial expression, because he presses on: ‘I feel terrible, Luce. And I’m not saying they deserve it, and I’m not saying I’m not sorry, I’m just saying … I’m just saying, it’s not black and white.’ He’s panting slightly. ‘I feel terrible,’ he whispers. ‘Please, Lucy.’ But it seems to her that his eyes don’t quite match his voice. The look he’s giving her isn’t quite pleading; it’s more expectant than that. He’s so obviously waiting for her to agree with him, for her to tell him it’s somehow okay. His Luce, his partner in crime.

‘Isn’t it black and white, though, Jem?’ she says quietly. ‘Isn’t it black and white this time? You once told me there’s got to be a cut-off point somewhere.’

She sees disappointment and then anger flare in his eyes. ‘Says the woman who happily wrings the necks of baby mutton-birds,’ he mutters.