Tom coughs feebly. I walk over and the back of my neck prickles as if dozens of eyes are watching me. He’s sleeping fitfully, his face shadowed with dark circles. I drop onto the bed next to him, suddenly exhausted, and the windowpane shakes as if someone is slapping their palm against it. An icy breeze sweeps over me, brushing my hair, and I spin around. Something darts in the corner of my eye: a shadow crossing between the wardrobe and the chest of drawers. I hold still, my muscles stiffening. I only caught a glimpse, but I’m sure I saw it rear up from the skirting board and flash across the wall.

Tom moans in his sleep.

Dragging my gaze from the wardrobe, I take the sleeping bag from my bed and put it over him. I rub his arm under the covers and whisper, ‘I don’t know if you can hear me, but you’re not alone. I’m here with you.’

A sudden howl of wind sets the windowpane trembling and then a floorboard creaks on the landing and a faint tapping sounds deep inside the house. Old places are like that: the wood resettles and the pipes contract. It doesn’t mean anything is there.

Stop it.

I think about the gloomy stairway and kitchen, my mind roaming through the rooms of the house, imagining them slowly getting darker. And then I picture the island’s empty holiday cottages and the closed-up schoolroom and the crumbling abbey and its lopsided gravestones. The families that live here have all gone now, and so have their farm animals. Nothing human is left.

Something crumples inside me. ‘Please, Tom. You have to wake up.’

He doesn’t stir or make a sound. I miss him so much. I miss his ludicrous laugh and the way he flicks his hair, and how he rests his arm on my head and calls me Shorty. I miss him so much it’s an actual physical pain in my chest.

The lighthouse comes on, bathing the room crimson. I need to light the oil lamps before it gets any darker. And I need to eat to keep my strength up, even if I don’t feel hungry. Tom too – I should fetch him something in case he wakes. I start to light the lamps when I hear a whisper behind me.

21

I turn around and Tom’s eyes are closed. Perhaps he spoke in his sleep. I walk over and perch on the bed opposite him.

‘Tom?’

His eyelids flicker open and he stares at me blankly, his eyes pink-rimmed and wet. What if he doesn’t know who I am? What if he’s changed in some way? I get to my feet, unsure what to do. ‘Can I get you anything? Are you hungry, thirsty?’

‘Am I awake?’ he croaks.

‘Yes. We’re on the island, in my mum’s house.’