‘What?’

‘Are you my girlfriend?’ He keeps his eyes focused on the space above me. ‘I gave you the earrings,’ he says.

‘I know.’

‘So you’re my girlfriend.’

‘My dad left.’

He puts his hand in my hair, the way he did in the woods at Shotton Hill. Working his fingers around my scalp, he says, ‘It’s all right.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ I say, pulling away from his hand. ‘My dad left.’

‘My dad crashed the car. My dad never came back.’

I sit there, earrings dangling. Shane stares into the air above me. The line of his chin is strong. The dipping curve of his open lips is still. He doesn’t allow his face to twitch as I watch him.

‘Do you miss him?’ I ask.

He doesn’t allow one blink, even though his hair hangs over the side of his face like a strange eyepatch.

‘My dad was the only sane one in our house,’ I say.

Shane gives a nod.

‘What was yours like?’

‘Dunno.’

‘Don’t you remember?’

‘No.’

There’s a long silence before he says, ‘There’s no point missing them.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Everything’s their fault. And when they go it’s still their fault. It’s all his fault.’

‘What is?’

‘Anything you bloody well like.’

I start to laugh, but Shane’s not smiling. He’s biting his lip, hard.

I wiggle my bare toes, but he doesn’t look at them. I blink at him and smile, but he keeps staring at the space above my head.

‘Shall we have some music?’

‘If you like.’

‘What do you fancy?’

He has no answer.

It’s hot in the shed. My palms are sweating. When I bring a hand up to sweep the hair from my face, I see a small patch of damp on the wooden floor.

‘Do you fancy anything, Shane?’

Again, no answer.

So I stand up. ‘I could take off my skirt. Shall I take off my skirt?’

I start to wonder if he’s heard me. ‘Do you want me to – ’ ‘OK.’

Staring at the wooden slats behind me, eyes half closed, he repeats, ‘OK,’ and not a muscle on him moves as he waits for me to remove my denim mini.

‘Shall we lock the door?’ I ask.

‘Why?’

‘In case.’

‘No.’ He pauses, nods his head. ‘Go on, then.’

Beneath my bare feet, the floorboards of the shed are warm. A cake crumb squishes between my toes. I shove my fingers down into my waistband. Shane keeps his eyes below my waist. His big lower lip hangs down so low I can see the spit on his teeth.

I tug the skirt down over my hips. I look at the net curtain behind Shane. I think about how white that curtain is. How clean.

I push the skirt over my thighs. I think about Shane’s mum washing the net every week, pegging the rough wet fabric to the whirligig. I think about the whipping sound it might make as it kicks out in the wind.