There was something there but, try as she might, she couldn’t fathom it, and by the end of the week her head was so muddled she decided to clear it by going for a run. She rode her motorbike up onto the moor and ran under dark skies. She pushed through the pain barrier, her lungs bursting, her legs aching. After two hours of physical hell, she returned to the boat, exhausted. She took a shower in the toilet block and collapsed on her bunk, thinking her head was no clearer.

A while later, her mobile rang. She blinked and reached for the phone. Outside the sun was playing hide and seek with the rain clouds, the inside of the boat alternately a warm yellow or a cold grey. She peered at the screen. Didn’t recognise the number.

‘Hello?’ She swivelled round and sat on the edge of the bunk.

‘It’s me, Becca. You OK?’ Beneath the American accent there was a hint of Irish. Like an aftertaste in a whiskey. Wood smoke, coffee, peach. ‘Because I just heard, sweetheart. About your mom.’

‘You just heard?’ Silva recognised the voice and felt her grip tighten on the phone. ‘It’s been weeks, Sean.’

‘I’ve been in-country. Sudan. It’s a long story, but the gist is I knew about the shooting but I didn’t get the names. I didn’t connect.’

‘You didn’t connect?’ She remembered the space between them. Geographical and emotional. No one to blame, no one at fault, just circumstances.

‘I’m so sorry, Becca. If only I could have been there with you. If only… well.’

She remembered the aftertaste. Burning and bitter and the warm glow seeping through to the tips of the fingers and making her whole body shiver. Her shadow stood black against the side of the cabin for a moment before fading as the sun disappeared once again. That was her and Sean. A warm glow fading to… to what?