In the summer the pools look like big beautiful baths. When Dad was around we used to come here if it was really hot. He found a safe place where we could edge down to the water. He pushed through the weeds, holding them back for me, then stretched out his hand. Come on. Don’t be afraid. We walked sideways down the mud, inching our toes closer to the water. The murky pool gradually found its way up our feet, our ankles, knees. Dad lifted me, his hands gripping my upper arms. He bent his knees so he was submerged to his neck. Then he lowered me down.

As the water took me in, my skin fizzed with cold. The sun was warm on my hair, but the rest of my body was freezing. We bobbed together in the icy water. I looked down and all I could see was black. I couldn’t even see my feet, wrapped around Dad’s waist as he held me in the water.

And then Dad went under. Everything went quiet. I looked out over the unbroken surface of the pool, and although Dad’s hands were still around my waist, holding me up, I was sure he’d gone. I was ready to scream out, when he came to the surface, whooping and flicking his hair away from his eyes. Laughing.

I’m thinking about him again.

I wait for Rob. There’s a faint whirr from the power station. I look towards the church. The branches move in the breeze. There’s a sliver of light from the one streetlamp at the end of the lane, but there’s no silhouette, no Rob.

There’s nobody at all.

The seat’s damp. A shiver makes my skin bump and I wrap my arms across my chest, clutch my own flesh.

Then there’s a rattle and rustle from the lane and Rob swerves his bike out of the trees and towards me. He doesn’t sit on his saddle as he pedals; it’s up, down, up, down, little arse bobbing away.

He stops and stands in front of me, bike between his legs, breathing hard. There’s a gleam on his jacket from the moon. His hair’s gelled, I can smell it. L’Oreal, I’ll bet.

‘Hi,’ he says, loudly, like he’s in some American soap. He glances all round as if he’s missing somebody. ‘Look. Can we go somewhere else?’

‘I like it here.’

‘It’s bloody weird.’

I stand up and wipe my hands on my skirt. Then I grab his handlebars in my fist. I get a lungful of L’Oreal as I lean forward. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘It’s just weird.’

I put my hand on his shoulder and give that cold rubbery stuff a squeeze. It’s definitely not the real thing, whatever it is.

‘Let’s just go, OK?’ he says, a bit louder.