She opened the cupboard in the desk. On the bottom shelf was a navy-blue cloth-backed notebook. She took it out, opened it, and saw Alex’s real writing. It was like seeing him, like hearing his voice. Her brother’s handwriting was as alive as anything she had ever seen. Shock wasn’t short, it didn’t end, like being hit. It was as violent as being hit but it went on and on, not stopping. Shock, reaction, shock, reaction. Shock.

Paint for corridor €22 x 8 5-litre tins.

Next to this he had written 8 seems a lot. In the corner of the page, tiny writing, shitload. Her throat and chest shrank up. There was no sound from Dan, upstairs. She rested her hand on the notebook, listening, but she felt nothing. The glass of wine was on the desk. She drank it. Then she drank half of Dan’s. She picked up the notebook and went out to the end of the garden, and sat on one of the sunbeds in the glaring heat.

Alex hadn’t bothered moving the sunbed to cut the grass. There were long strands around the stubby feet, and mown and unmown swathes in patches all around. The wooden slats were broad beneath her, and slightly sticky from the sun. She wanted to talk to him. She had the feeling if she shouted he would hear. She opened the notebook and looked down at the faintly ruled pages, the biro marks across the small squares.

Call Griff – Go Swiss-Germans! – Abdul 3356738877 – ELECTRICITY!!! Jean (Abdul’s mate) 4246543365.

Her tears started again, and through them she saw that next to Call Griff were doodles, like worms or curving shells and spirals, one inside the other. The rest of the pages were similarly semi-filled: to-do lists, scribbles; then at the back, at the bottom of the page and in pencil, Alstrum Lieb, and a string of numbers. Then some shorter numbers, and another long one, tiny and neat. Bea flicked through the thin pages and saw the name Florence, with a love heart next to it like a teenage girl might draw. He had written the name. He had felt something, had drawn hearts. She couldn’t ask him about it. Her finger traced the name. She didn’t think it was wrong to look, that he’d mind, but she couldn’t ask him that, either. She put the book down and lay on the hard sunbed, her eyes still on the pages. She looked up at the sky. She could see the darkness of space beyond the blue.

She wasn’t comfortable. She turned onto her side, looking from one empty window of the hotel to another, and then back down to the notebook. The heat was fading. She turned the pages, reading sideways. Her arm fell asleep and she shifted position. Small beetles crawled over the page. The shadows stretched towards her. Deep sleep pulled her down and down. She was aware of distant sounds, then nothing.