Morris’s right eye was swollen shut, but he hadn’t been blinded. One finger was broken, so the hospital would provide the splint – it would take time to heal, of course, but despite the savage kicking he wasn’t crippled. The bottle of wine on Ayesha’s table was empty, and her mother had cooked a leg of lamb, which they’d all enjoyed: they had enjoyed each other’s company again, and had been so carefully kind to one another. Most miraculous of all, though – most fortunate and unexpected – was the existence of a little cupboard in The Golden Fleece that Michael found when he visited the loos. It said Drying Room, and when he opened the door he found shelves and racks of boots and waterproofs.

Morris would spend that night in a waiting room.

Ayesha would sleep in the room next to Kristin’s, and try not to wonder what he’d look like if only he’d reached seventeen. She had seen his ghost, just once – or hoped she had. It might have been her own reflection, but she wanted it to be him, flickering back from wherever he was. She lay in bed remembering the times they’d slept side by side, when he was little, and how he’d made her squeal by putting his ice-cold hands on her skin. If his thin ghost slipped in beside her now, she wouldn’t make a sound.

She closed her eyes, willing him to appear – as Michael looked at the abandoned clothes, and wondered if he dared borrow them. He knew he shouldn’t stand there for too long, in case he was disturbed, but it did seem extraordinary that his problems had been so easily solved. There were two cagoules, and they were both far more robust than the skimpy thing he’d been wearing. There was a big red coat and a pair of waterproof trousers next to it. There were various socks and three pairs of proper walking boots, the soles thick with hard, dry mud. Above them he could see a woolly hat, a single, solitary glove, and even a football scarf – but could they be lost property? He should ask the manager, obviously, but the thought of being thwarted at this stage was unbearable – and it mattered, because he couldn’t do a fourteen-mile walk over the moors in his own shoes. He scrunched up the toes of his left foot, and felt the debit card.

He would rise early and take what he needed.

He would risk using it, because it wouldn’t be theft – by late afternoon he would be putting everything back in exactly the same place, and Maria needed a guide.