David lunges at me again and this time Tom tackles him by the legs. The boatman goes down with a thud, his head cracking on the deck. Tom scrambles to his feet, then checks him over, feeling for a pulse in his neck. When he pulls his hand away, it’s covered in blood.

‘It’s not your fault. You didn’t mean to hurt him,’ I whisper.

He looks at me blankly, as if he can’t take in what just happened. The boatman groans and begins to stir, and Tom turns and gestures for us to go.

I race for the ladder and scramble down, half-dropping onto the shingle, and Tom jumps down behind me, landing awkwardly. He gathers up the bags with a wince and looks down at his ankle. I take his arm and wrap it around my shoulder and we stumble across the pebbles, both of us glancing back at the boat.

We’re twenty paces away when David appears on deck. His face seems normal, the grimace gone. Holding on to the rail with one hand, he touches the back of his head then looks at his fingers in surprise. I wait for him to shout down to us, but it’s like he hasn’t seen us.

Tom hops on one foot and I take the bags so he can get his balance. We watch as the boatman unwinds the rope from the harbour and a moment later we hear the engine rumble into life. The boat pulls away and turns in a wide arc. Tom mutters in disbelief, ‘He’s leaving.’

The boat picks up speed, leaving a trail of churning white foam in its wake, and then it’s gone, swallowed by the fog.

15

We stop to rest at the top of the hill, and Tom bends to rub his ankle. A thin film of sweat covers his forehead and his hand is trembling. He holds my gaze for a beat then looks away, his eyes filled with anxiety. I wish I could reassure him that everything will be OK, but how can I? He straightens up and stares toward the misty sea, his face unreadable. He hasn’t said a word since we watched the boat leave, but I have to know.

‘Did you see it?’

He nods, not taking his gaze from the horizon.

‘You saw the shadow?’

‘Yes.’

I expect him to ask me about it and demand that I tell him everything I know, but he doesn’t. He releases a heavy breath and limps off down the path, his shoulders slumped.

When we reach the farmhouse, I check the quad bike and find the key in the ignition. The petrol is low but it should be enough to get us to the cottage. The thought of my mum doing this ritual alone sends a jolt of worry through me. I need to get back – and quickly.