I grab his arm. ‘Stop a minute! Where is he? Where’s Shane?’

He looks at me like I’m mad. ‘I don’t bloody know! He ran off.’

‘Where’s Rob, then?’

‘He’s still in there! He’s in the pool!’ He lets out a cry, then, like the gargling sound I heard before. ‘He was cut, there was blood – he went under and – ’

‘Go and get someone,’ I say. ‘Quick.’

I run back towards the pools. I don’t slip or yell this time, because my feet are light now. I have to find them, both of them. The steam is behind me as I sprint over the field.

I go faster. I go faster. I go faster. Until I get to the biggest pool, and I see his bike.

Rob’s bike. Rob’s racing bike is on its side in the mud. The handlebars are skewed in a smashed puddle of ice.

My breath gathers and melts in my chest.

I look around. There’s a big streak in the mud by the bike, like something’s been dragged through it. I step off the path and stumble through the skeleton trees, towards the pool. Brambles clutch at my tights. My foot slides on an old crisp packet and I grab hold of a knobbled branch, my feet skidding in opposite directions. I pull myself straight and peer over the silent water. Its covering of ice shines in the moonlight. It looks like cling film, sealing everything in, keeping it all down there, keeping it quiet.

I call for him. ‘Rob,’ I call. Then, ‘Shane.’ I call again. I call for both of them. I don’t stop calling their names. ‘Rob,’ I shout. ‘Shane,’ I shout. Again and again I shout for them.

But there’s nothing. Just dead leaves caught in the tangled twigs. The still lid of the ice on the pool. And my own breath, blooming and spreading in front of me. My own breath keeps blooming and spreading.

epilogue

Joanna: Christmas, 1985

Joanna

Christmas, 1985

Simon’s chocolate goes soft in my mouth. It leaves a gooey layer on my teeth. I run my tongue around my gums to clean it out. But my mouth still feels clogged.

He’s staring at his gloved hands. ‘Your mother says you’re leaving.’

Above us, the rooks scrape out another call.

He pushes his glasses up his nose and moves closer along the bench, but doesn’t touch. ‘I think it’s a good thing. You know. You should be with your dad. I think it will be good. For all of us.’

I nod, stretching my legs out in front of me. I dig the heels of my ankle boots into the mud.

He fakes a cough. ‘We’ll miss you,’ he says. Then, ‘I’ll miss you.’

I look at his face. That withered cheek. That fringe frozen into place. He tries a small smile.