Miguel held her tightly and kissed her tenderly once more, before climbing back into the driver’s seat. She felt his love and knew she would never forget his actions on this night, knowing it was one of the kindest things anyone had ever done for her. As she watched the tail lights of his car trundle back up the road, as if creeping quietly in the dead of night, the door to the cottage opened and out came Ruby, beautifully swollen with pregnancy, but her face red and contorted as she cried from eyes that were now no more than narrow slits.

‘Merry!’ Ruby’s voice was no more than a rasp and her face tortured as her fingers gripped Merrin’s arms.

‘Oh Ruby!’ Merrin fell against her, the two clinging on to each other as if their lives depended on it. Silently they held each other on the slippery cobbles in the dark, as rain fell and the wind rushed at them, carrying salty, sea-laden sheets that soaked their skin and the fabric of their clothes. It was as if this wild corner of Cornwall was roaring at the loss of its son, and she understood, wanting to roar too.

‘He’s gone!’ Ruby gasped.

Again Merrin’s tears broke their banks, as her heart felt like it might dissolve. The sight of her sister and the fact her dad was not running outside with arms wide to welcome her home told her that it was true.

Making their way inside, she rushed up the stairs of the cottage and knocked gently, before walking into her parents’ room. The sight was something she knew she would never forget.

Heather Kellow had got old, just like that and almost overnight. She had lost her shine, her sparkle, her plump face, her laughter and her joy; replaced by a dull, slender imitation of the woman, but one with a vacant expression, sallow cheeks and eyes that wordlessly spoke of pure sorrow. She barely shifted in the bed, but with great effort, raised her head a little from the pillow and said her daughter’s name, her voice, barely audible, one of sadness and gravel.

‘Merrin . . .’

‘Oh Mum! Mummy!’ Merrin climbed on to the rickety brass bed next to her mother and wrapped her arms around her. It was as if her spirit had fled and she now gripped the shell of Ben’s wife. There was no welcome smile, no offer of tea or baked goods, no interest in anything other than lying very still and hoping the minutes might pass, or that they might all wake in a time where either they hurt a little less or they smiled, realising that the whole horrible thing had been no more than the very worst kind of dream.

‘He’s gone,’ she mouthed, as tears sprang from her bloodshot eyes and ran down her face. ‘He’s gone . . .’ This followed by a sound, a whimper that was animal-like and wounded.