Will’s chest and arms were muscular and he had a good tan from working outside. Girls looked at him now, which they’d never done before. When the holidaymakers arrived at the park, as they unloaded their cars, the teenage daughters sometimes offered him a smile, or stared at him blatantly, chewing gum. Little Marnie Morahan, always alert to what older girls were doing, had nicknamed him ‘Diet Coke man’. He told her to shut up but secretly he liked it. He didn’t have a girlfriend. Well, he kind of did. A local girl, Daisy Bradshaw, had taken to calling by the holiday park every afternoon when she finished work in the chemist’s in Avonmouth and sometimes they walked to the kiosk for an ice cream or a bottle of pop, but Will didn’t feel anything for her except mild irritation. Daisy had a long, sorrowful face and moony eyes. Her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, accentuating her neck, which was the same width as her face. Her conversation was mainly limited to her work, her attempts to deal with the disgruntlement of elderly and afflicted customers, and people complaining about the cost of prescriptions. Her voice was dreary and monotone.

That afternoon – the afternoon Alice arrived – after Will had been clearing the rhyne, sweat was running down his back and the top of his head was burning. He was thinking about getting back to the chalet he shared with his mother and putting his head under the cold tap and then drinking from the tap; he was so thirsty he could drink a bucketful, but he stopped when he saw a movement through the leaves of the hedge and heard a female voice singing along to a song piping from a tinny radio. He knew exactly where he was, behind the rank of smaller caravans reserved for the holiday park’s seasonal staff and single occupants. This rank was on a spur, away from the family caravans. It was quieter here, less hectic.