Tom blinks at me. ‘Wow.’

‘Wow?’

‘Sorry. That’s a lot to take in. It can’t have been easy for you.’

My throat tightens and I rub my head, hoping he doesn’t ask me anything else. Thankfully, he seems to realise I’ve shared enough for one day as he squeezes my arm and whispers, ‘I’m glad you told me.’ Changing the subject, he leans back and announces loudly. ‘Now you’ll have to excuse me, but I need a moment with my muffin.’

He lifts up the muffin, his shoulders doing a tiny wriggle, and looks at it adoringly. Before he can take a bite, I grab a chunk and shove it in my mouth.

He holds it out to me. ‘I’m sorry. Would you like some?’

I shake my head, pleased we’re back to messing about.

He demolishes the rest in a few quick bites and mutters, ‘Oh my days, that was good,’ then stretches his arms wide before checking his phone. ‘You said your mum lives on an island. Does that mean you need to catch a ferry?’

My smile drops off my face. How can I have been so stupid? I haven’t booked the boat crossing, and from what I read online there’s only one guy who does it. What if he’s not going today or I’ve missed him? I take out my phone and search for the website.

‘You OK?’

I answer without looking up. ‘Yeah, I just realised I should probably book the boat.’ I find the page and click to call the number, but there’s no answer.

‘I can’t get through.’

Tom shrugs. ‘You can try again on the way.’

He stands up and hands me his car keys. ‘I need the toilet. See you out there?’

‘Sure.’

He walks away and shouts over his shoulder. ‘If I’m not back in two minutes …’

I raise my eyebrows. ‘Then what?’

‘Then just wait longer.’ He grins.

I open the café door and shiver as the cold hits me. The blustery wind carries the threat of rain and something else – a foul smell. I thought one of the kids needed changing, but maybe there’s a problem with the drains. I head for the steps, doing my best to hold up the shorts and not inhale, when the old lady from earlier hurries towards me.

She’s pushing her trolley, her long white hair flying in the wind. ‘The shadows,’ she cries. ‘They’re trying to get inside.’

She points a shaking finger at the ground and I see it too. Beneath the empty bench is a patch of shadow. It moves along the walkway towards us, swirling around on itself like a tiny tornado. I tell myself it’s just dirt caught up in the wind, but something about it doesn’t look right. I blink, not trusting my eyes, as it comes towards us, expanding and getting darker. It moves faster, whirling over the ground – and then it creeps up over the woman’s trolley and is gone.

Suddenly, the dog stands up in its basket and shakes itself as if it’s wet. Again and again its body twists and turns. It’s like watching a few frames of film on repeat … like the moths, and Anorak Man stroking his beard and turning his head back and forth. Realisation washes over me like a slimy film and I step back, feeling nauseous.