I can only just see the outline of the power station tonight. It’s dark already. Orangey plumes of steam wind up into the sky.

Passing Buggery’s window, I catch my reflection. My face looks strange, superimposed on all the advertising postcards people have stuck up there. Rabbits for Sale. Earn extra cash for Christmas (big writing across my forehead), come turkey plucking (small writing across my nose).

I stop to practise. Eyes wide, looking up from under, mouth just open, ready. I wet my lips and blink. He’ll like that.

Then I remember standing with my hands on my naked hips for Shane, the way he just stared at my feet, and I close my mouth.

I wonder if he’ll come.

There are no lights down the lane that leads to the pools; the bushes hang right over. I turn the Walkman off and listen to the sound of my own footsteps.

You can’t get close to the pits where they’re still digging. Massive fences are all around them. But the old ones are full up with water, which is why people call them the pools. Also, it sounds better, which attracts people who like walking around on Sundays. Not that they ever go anywhere. They just walk round and round, without a destination.

I step off the gravel path, push through some skinny trees, and reach the biggest pool. It’s dark as death itself, as Mum would say. I get as close to the water as I can. There are bushes and weeds all along the edge. Big spiky branches stick up in the air like spears. But there are gaps where the plants thin out. Gaps where you could slide through, if you were to slip on a muddy patch. I lean over. The water smells slightly acidic. Cold.

I can just see the outline of one of the warning signs. They’re everywhere down here. I know them off by heart.

‘DANGER – Deep Water!’

‘Keep Away From Edge!’

‘Deep Soft Mud Leading to Possible ENTRAPMENT!’

And a skull and crossbones beneath each one.

Deep Soft Mud. It sounds inviting. Like a mud bath in a beauty salon, or like drowning in a face pack. It would be cold at first, but then it would get warm, and its smoothness would creep over you. It would hold you there, suspended in the warm mass of mud. It would get in all your cracks. You’d suck it up your nose, like chocolate milkshake through a straw, until your lungs would be full of mud. Fit to burst.

I back away from the pool and sit down on a bench to wait for Rob. The bench is there for people who like to watch birds. Twitchers.