‘Give me some more,’ I say. We look at each other, and then he hands me the chocolate.

Together, we finish off the whole bar. We sit and look out at the bare trees and the still water and we eat and eat and eat as if we’re hungry. It makes my stomach feel twisted and sore, but I keep chewing and swallowing.

When we’ve finished, he says, very quietly, ‘The police asked me about Shane.’

I screw up the wrapper and throw it in the grass.

‘Joanna. They asked me about you and him.’

I don’t say anything.

‘They said Luke told them there was a fight. A fight with Shane.’

My mouth is dry and when I swallow it’s like it’s still clogged with chocolate.

‘I didn’t say anything,’ he says. He puts his head in his hands. Rubs at his temples. ‘I don’t know why. I said I didn’t know anything about him.’

‘You don’t know anything about him.’

He shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says. ‘I suppose not. But you should have told them about him, Joanna. Even if he didn’t do anything, even if it was an accident – ’

‘It was an accident. It said in the newspaper. Rob drowned.’

I stand up and realise my legs are shaking. But I keep my voice steady. ‘Shane wouldn’t have hurt him. Not like that.’

He looks at me for a long time, his eyes searching my face. My throat goes tight, but I will not cry.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. Then he hangs his head again and rubs at his temples.

I turn from him but he grabs my sleeve and I let him hold it for a minute.

‘Wait,’ he says. He fishes in his pocket with his other hand. Then he dangles something long and shiny from one finger. ‘I’ve got you a present. Earrings. Your reward for our tutorials. And, you know, to say goodbye.’

I look back over the pool. ‘Thanks,’ I say.

But I walk away without taking them, and he doesn’t come after me.

Howard: January, 1986

Howard

January, 1986

I’ve taken a few weeks off work. They don’t quibble over long-term illness or bereavement. If you’re off with a stomach bug, there’s no end of enquiry. Questions about the exact nature of the sickness, how long you had it, what you took for it and how you’re feeling now. But mention death and everyone falls silent. No questions asked.

You hear about people who can’t bear to enter the rooms of the dead, who can’t bring themselves to touch anything that once belonged to their lost loved ones. People whose grief is so great that they seal the door of the deceased’s room and leave everything just as it is, for years, as a kind of shrine.