He reaches a hand to his chest and groans when he feels his ripped sweatshirt. ‘I’m awake,’ he mutters. ‘I’m awake.’ He says it over and over, his head turning from side to side as if he’s having a bad dream. Anxiety sweeps over me and I clutch his arm.

‘Tom?’

He frowns at me, a faint glimmer of recognition in his eyes. ‘You’re …’

I lean close, willing him to say my name. ‘Yes?’

‘Shorty,’ he says.

A tiny laugh of relief escapes me. ‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘No, you’re hurting my arm.’

‘Oh, sorry.’

I pull away and he whispers. ‘You know I …’ He coughs convulsively, unable to finish the sentence.

‘Bruise like a peach?’

He smiles and then winces. ‘Water. I need water.’

‘I’ll get you some. I’ll be back in a minute, OK?’

He lifts his head, his eyes swimming with anxiety as he peers around the room. The red glow from the lighthouse is broken by shards of darkness, the flickering oil lamps making the shadows leap and lick at the walls. The wind moans a low warning outside and he stares at the window as if fearful that something unearthly will climb through it.

‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’

He gives a feeble nod and I stand and gaze at him a moment longer. It’s so good to have him back, I don’t want to let him out of my sight.

Taking one of the lamps, I head downstairs. I’ve been dreading going into the house knowing my mum’s not here, but the darkness doesn’t seem quite so bad now that Tom is awake. In the kitchen, I pour two glasses of water then search through the cupboards. Amongst the canned potatoes and peas are some tins of soup.

I smile, remembering Tom eating tomato soup in the staffroom once. He kept dipping his bread in the bowl and making slurping noises. When I glared at him, he grinned and only did it more. I open two tins and pour their contents into a pan, wishing we were there now. He could annoy me every minute of the day and I wouldn’t care, just as long as he was OK.

It takes a while to get the stove to work and I have to strike several matches, but eventually the gas catches with a whoosh. While the soup is heating, I find myself glancing over my shoulder. Perhaps it’s the pool of darkness under the table and by the dresser, but the kitchen seems different: bigger and colder, and yet not as empty as it should. Being here without my mum feels wrong, and my heart clenches to think I may never see her again.