Easing open the bathroom door, I see why Tom pulled a face. A large wooden box sits against the wall, a white toilet lid on top of it. Next to it is a ceramic sink and a shower cubicle covered with thick mould. I lift the lid and it doesn’t smell too bad, most of the odour masked by sawdust. Even so, it feels odd relieving myself on a compost toilet and I find myself missing the wonders of the modern sewage system in a way I’ve never done before.

I’m surprised when I turn on the tap and hot water gurgles into the sink, steaming the mirrored cabinet above. The glass is mottled with rust and, like everything else, looks past its best. Aside from collecting their own rainwater, I guess the islanders rely on the boatman to bring the things they need – food, medicine, oil and gas, furniture. No wonder everything in the house is dated.

A bar of yellow soap sits in a puddle on the edge of the sink. I sniff it and recoil from the vaguely medicinal smell, then wash as quickly as I can. Shivering, I take a towel from the rail and dry myself, then change into the nightdress and pull on my jumper. As I brush my teeth, I wonder what else Tom has got in his sports bag. Maybe some hand cream or lip balm. Judging by the state of his stubble, he clearly doesn’t have a razor.

I turn off the tap as best I can, unable to stop the last dribble of water, and the lamp gutters and spits. I fiddle with the tiny dial, my breath quickening. It’s only a short walk back to the bedroom, but I’d rather not do it in darkness. The flame momentarily flickers out and I glance up and gasp. A pale face stares out of the mirror: a girl my age with long straight black hair parted in the middle, sharp cheekbones and full red lips.

You’re not who you think you are.

I spin around, half-expecting to see someone, but the room is empty. When I turn back, the girl is gone and all I see is me.

12

By the time I get back to the room, my heart rate has almost returned to normal. I try to convince myself it was just the low light – the mirror was badly tarnished and the flickering lamplight distorted my reflection. It’s been a long day and I’m tired. But whichever way I look at it, I know it wasn’t my imagination.

Tom’s been busy while I’ve been gone: both the beds are made and his sleeping bag lies across mine as an extra cover. The small act of kindness fills me with gratitude. He was only trying to help earlier; maybe I should tell him what’s been happening.

He has his head in a book and barely notices as I place my lamp on the bedside table between us and then climb under the covers. He seems even taller lying down, his long legs stretching right to the end of the bed and his feet poking up under the blankets. He wriggles his toes and I’m reminded of the way he moves his shoulders when he eats.