PART FIVE

Of all the places he’d been - all the campsites that looked the same, all the towns that felt no different to one another - Ronan felt most at peace atop the rain-stained roof of the caravan he shared with his brother.

Although the scenery all around them was subject to change from summer to summer, the spot on top of the caravan remained a constant in his life; he was happy here, wherever they were.

The campsite outside of Clayham-on-Sea had no view of the ocean, but there was still beauty in how the sunrise painted the sky with the promise of good weather and better days. Some mornings – many mornings, in fact – Ronan would leave the bed beside Simon’s and climb up onto the roof, the sound of his clambering only occasionally waking his brother. There, among the dew and the clumps of moss discarded by birds, he'd bring his knees close and watch as the pale sky was set alight by the sun rising just beyond the trees.

Ronan revelled in the freshness of the air so early in the morning; his skin breathed with relief. Often, by the time the sun had started to burn the tops of the trees, bathing half the campsite in hopeful light, Simon had joined him on the roof, always with two cups of poorly made tea in his hands. Ronan never passed comment on how bitter and over-stewed the tea tasted, but took it gratefully with a smile that was returned with bleary eyes by his brother. He would hold the cup in his hands, soaking up the heat, and find a sense of peace watching the sun climb higher and higher, his brother shivering cross-legged under a blanket beside him.

Ronan liked the summer sunrises best of all because there was a chance to sit with them a while longer, soaking up the optimism of a new dawn while the days still stretched before them. When autumn came, there wouldn't be time to stop and stare and admire.

That morning, Ronan woke to find his brother’s bed empty. He squinted in the half-light and saw no sign of him from his perch, and so peeled himself from the bed to knock on the toilet door. There was no response. Above him, the roof creaked.

Sure enough, Simon was sitting in his usual cross-legged position, a blanket draped over his shoulders and bare arms. Beside him was a mug of tea, probably stone cold by now, reserved for Ronan. His own mug he clung tightly to him.

“This is fucking horrible,” he said as Ronan sat beside him. Ronan picked up the mug left for him and sipped the tea, turning away to hide how his face twitched involuntarily in reaction. He left the drink beside him and watched with curiosity as Simon continued to sip his regardless, a glutton for punishment.

“You’re up early.”

“I know. I thought you’d already be up here. Then I saw how dark it was.”

“I was out cold,” Ronan replied, noticing that Simon’s gaze had never left the tree line in the distance, where the sky had turned silver in anticipation of the sun’s golden arrival.

“You didn’t even move when I used the kettle. Thought I’d wait.”

“Is everything OK?”

Simon had never been particularly talkative, and Ronan had long ago recognised that his brother relied on physicality and expression. When he did speak, Simon was acerbic or cool or – if they’d been drinking – blunt. This was different, however. He wasn’t being quiet because he was a quiet person, but rather because something was lodged in his throat.

“Sure,” Simon replied, as if answering a different question.

Ronan knew better than to push his brother. Instead, he drew his knees in closer as he did most mornings and watched as the sun - already well on its way to reaching the tops of the trees - basking in the early morning glow.

It had rained in the night, leaving a few stray clouds in the sky and a dewy sheen on the grass below. Even now, the vapour had begun to rise from the surface of the ground, a faint curling mist loitering, waiting to be forgiven for fleeing the heavens - to be taken back up into the sky.

“I miss the year we had the house. I don’t like the caravan,” Simon said, without provocation nor any change in expression.

He raised the tea to his lips once again, his expression echoing Ronan’s own, and tossed the rest of the liquid onto the damp grass below. The liquid glistened for the brief moment it was in the air, catching on the first hints of the sunrise, and was gone. “But I’m glad I’m here.”

“I’m glad you’re here too, matey," Ronan nudged his brother playfully. "Maybe next year we’ll be in a house again.”

“I don’t think this is what I want to do next year.”

The remark didn’t surprise Ronan, nor did it strike at his pride as it might have done to their father. He knew that this life wasn’t for Simon – that his brother’s ambitions and upbringing were different to his own. Ronan had been raised saturated by the lifestyle, always excited to visit his dad at different fairgrounds and carnivals. By the time he was old enough to go with him, Ronan had understood the price: work hard at school and he would be permitted to leave early for the summer. That was all the motivation he had ever needed, keeping his head down and his grades up so that when the time came - the early morning with coffee on his dad’s breath as they both clambered into the van – he could leave the boredom behind for a while, coming home full of stories to share with the friends less fortunate than him. How bored they must have been in their static lives, he thought.

Simon, as their dad would say, was raised by his mother. She had been reluctant enough to part with Ronan for months at a time, left behind to work another job to keep them afloat in the off-season. After rattling about in the house all alone, summer-after-summer, their mother had insisted on another child - and Simon was born from her insistence.

Despite how tightly she kept him to herself, however, their father still insisted on Simon joining them for a summer – which became two, and then three. At the end of the season, they would return home and she would give Simon the tightest hug, wordlessly telling him that she understood his quietness, while Ronan raced to tell her every detail of their summer. Eventually, Ronan had grown to understand that his younger brother and mother needed that moment at the end of the season for themselves – for each other. He often wondered if his mother knew that Simon was gay - if she had known before Simon whispered the words to him matter-of-factly across a darkened caravan the year before. Ronan never asked, and Simon rarely raised his midnight confession directly, though the brothers could understand each other well enough without words.

On the caravan roof, Ronan suspected the topic might make a chance appearance once again. He waited for his brother to say something more, to direct the conversation, but Simon said nothing else. The brothers sat in silence, watching as a new day dawned on a world that was threatening to change on them - though Ronan knew he could hardly blame the sun or his brother – things were never going to stay like this forever.

***

“Does it hurt?”

Kristi attempted to turn her head from her place sinking into the sofa, but her skull threatened to crack open under the strain of too much movement.

Just out of sight, Claire was lingering with a slowly cooling cup of tea in her hands, waiting for the chance to pass it to her sister. Her hovering wasn't helping Kristi's headache.

A wincing sigh escaped as Kristi shifted position, ready to accept the tea. Claire eventually stepped forward and passed the drink to her sister. Her eyes traced the bruise blossoming across the left side of Kristi's face, traipsing through a garden of flowers every shade of yellow and purple and blue.

“A lot,” Kristi replied, finally, wishing the tea was warmer and more comforting against her palms.

When she had first answered the door to her sister, Claire couldn’t get a good look at the damage; Kristi still had her make-up on, streaked and patchy from tears, but intact enough to cover the marks in the dim light. Now, in the bright glow of morning and with a bare face, the injuries were far more obvious.

“Can you call Damon for me? And then pick me up something stronger from the pharmacy. They’re useless,” she said, pointing to the packet of paracetamol on the table.

“Sure...” Claire replied, taking a seat on the edge of the other sofa, leaning against the arm rest to get closer to her sister, “...If you tell me what happened. What really happened. You were hysterical last night.”

Kristi had not yet looked her sister in the eye, but she knew it needed to be done; it would be expected eventually.

“It was all a blur...”

"Were you attacked?" Claire asked, plainly.

Kristi stopped sipping on her tea. Claire hadn't let the tea bag stew long enough, it was only lukewarm, and it was too sweet to taste much else. Still, Kristi was grateful for anything that could remove the dryness in her mouth and the metallic taste of blood where her lip had burst open. She didn't answer.

“Did you see who it was?” Claire probed, taking her sister’s spare hand in her own, convinced of her own line of question.

Claire's voice and expression had both softened, a surprising kindness tempering the sharp edges of her interrogation. Regardless, Kristi felt the discomfort of the questions and the stabbing pressure in her stomach. She didn't want to say it, but would she be brave enough to do it later? Hesitantly, Kristi answered, stumbling and stammering over her words uncertainly.

"He l-looked like... that guy. You know... The one Ha-Havannah’s been hanging around with."

Claire leaned back, and Kristi momentarily saw past the caring and compassion, catching a glimpse of Claire's appetite for gossip. Just as quickly as it had slipped, the mask was back on, though Kristi could tell it had been too much information for her to digest at speed; her appetite wasn't big enough for such a bombshell, and Kristi wondered if she had been right to say anything at all.

“Oh…” Claire’s grip on her sister’s hand loosened.

“What?”

“Nothing, it’s just…”

“Because you used to be friends?” Kristi asked, her voice tinged in offence. She snatched her hand back and let it join the other, resting on the mug. “Just forget it Claire. Leave me in peace."

Claire sat awkwardly for a moment, still and silent while Kristi drank her tea. The eldest sister knew that she was just waiting to prod with another question, and there was little she could do to deter it. Eventually, Claire cracked, unable to stay quiet for any longer. The question felt like she’d jabbed a finger into Kristi’s bruises.

“Are you going to speak to the police?”

Kristi shifted again. There was no more tea left to distractedly sip, and so she bought herself a moment of contemplation by turning instead to the blinds and the thin strips of light peeking through them.

“No. I don’t want to.”

“I thought you’d say that.”

Shadows outside the house disturbed the light along the blinds, followed by the doorbell ringing. Kristi turned to look at Claire with as much speed as she could muster.

“What did you do?”

“I called them while you were asleep…Please don’t be mad,” Claire begged, her eyes fixed on Kristi as she rose from the sofa and headed to the front door.

Kristi tried to sit up in protest, but the ache weighed her down, and she sank further into the sofa and her despair.

The next few hours were an agonising slideshow of scenes. Kristi detached herself from it all, the worried throbbing in her chest making her feel hollow and sick all at once. Once again, Claire reached for her trembling hand as she described the darkness and the sudden, terrifying ordeal, though Kristi wished she would keep away.

One of the officers – the woman, whose freckles Kristi had been counting so that she might appear to be meeting her gaze – asked the question that Kristi had been dreading. Her stomach churned.

“Did you recognise your attacker?”

Kristi said nothing. She was gulping back fear and shame. The moment of silence dragged on and expanded in a way her lungs felt they might never be able to emulate again, and she felt herself floating away, leaving her body and the town and heading for the sea where nobody could find her.

A squeeze of her hand by Claire’s anchored her, calling Kristi’s mind back to the scene playing out in the room. The other players were each looking at her sympathetically, as if she’d forgotten her lines. Should she even have been in this play? What was her role again?

“Kristi? Tell them,” Claire said, stroking her thumb on the back of Kristi’s hand in a way that made the skin slide up and down against bone; it wasn’t enough to shake the whole hand, but it was enough to bring Kristi back.

She was dragged through her own history, witnessing flashes of her grandmother’s death, watching the headlights of her dad’s car vanish, her mum’s death, Havannah, the pain…

“Some guy,” Kristi said, her throat coarse from dryness.

When she tried to swallow, her windpipe threatened to close and choke her. Claire must have noticed, as she let go of her sister’s hand and reached for a glass of water, passing it to Kristi who took a sip and felt the momentary flourish of an oasis in her throat. By the time the cool water had reached the cradle of her stomach, the oasis was dry again and she wasn’t sure she could continue to speak for much longer.

The sisters’ eyes caught one another, and Claire smiled reassuringly. The expression contorted her face into something new and unrecognisable, yet somehow reassuring. A united front had formed between them, signified by Claire's determined brow and the firm curl of the corners of her mouth. Kristi smiled back, nodded, and cleared her throat.

“He had blond hair. Straw-coloured. I've seen him working on the pier."

"We both have," Claire interjected.

"He hangs around with the owner’s daughter.”

“Havannah,” Claire jumped in again, tapping the officer's notepad. “Havannah Shaw.”

The police officer who had asked the question smiled sympathetically even as her patience wore thin. She disregarded Claire and paused her pen over the notepad. Kristi took another sip of water to distract her from the buzzing of thoughts in her head. Why do they still use little pads? Am I going to be sorry about this? What will they do next? Will Damon ask me to work tonight?

The thoughts didn’t stop, but nobody was looking at Kristi for answers or admissions while she was drinking the water. She noticed then that, while she had distracted herself, the officers had exchanged quiet words and nods, an understanding between them. The male officer excused himself, explaining he would be in the car making enquiries.

Both Claire and the remaining police officer watched him leave, and Kristi wondered if the other two women were in on the conspiracy. The officer leaned forward, her voice dropping to a low, delicate hum.

“Kristi, I know this might feel awkward, but I have a few more questions to ask. I've asked my colleague to give us some privacy.”

Kristi spotted Claire’s eyes out of the corner of her own, glossy with anxious concern. She hadn’t known Claire to cry actual tears for years, though the expression was no guarantee of that. Her younger sister chewed her lip as they both waited for the officer's question.

“Did the attacker cause you any sexual harm?”

The words struck Kristi like ice to the chest and, for a brief time, it felt like her heart had started to beat so quickly that it had stopped. She thought then of hummingbirds in flight, beating their wings so fast that they appeared to be hovering in thin air. Also like hummingbirds, the proof was in the sound - the heavy thumps of Kristi's heart bellowed in her ears, far less dainty than the buzz of tiny wings.

Kristi darted her eyes between the two women. Neither looked like they would believe her – like a harmful sympathy would deny Kristi’s own experience. She shook her head quickly.

“No. Absolutely not.”

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Kristi,” the officer tried. The coldness snapped back to a warm rage, Kristi's heart slowing enough to feel it behind each thump.

“I told you, nothing like that happened.”

“OK Kristi,” the officer took the hint and sat back.

Kristi noticed then that Claire had allowed both officers to perch on the edge of their coffee table – a sturdy block of wood on thick legs and bound by black metal clasps in the corner. It was a purchase of their mother’s. Suddenly, she wasn’t happy - not with the police being there, or them sitting on her mother's coffee table, or the questions they were hounding her with.

“I’m tired,” she declared, feeling somewhat like a child – and like a child, the police officer rebuffed her statement.

“We won’t take up much more of your time, but I have to ask if there’s any motive you can think of that might have led to the attack?”

This time, Claire cut in before Kristi could even consider the question, their unspoken united front snapping back into place. Kristi often forgot that her sister’s rage was white hot, a sharpened blade that she struck into your heart with her words.

“Excuse me?" the younger woman screeched. "Are you saying she deserved it? Are you actually blaming the victim? In her own home?”

Kristi noticed Claire’s grasp on her had tightened and now included both hands on her arm. The blood dispersed beneath the skin where Claire’s fingertips pressed, and Kristi considered herself the anchor this time; holding onto her sister stopped Claire from getting into trouble.

“Not at all. We’re just trying to build up a profile to know what we’re dealing with.”

The calm answer – spoken without missing a beat as if delivered many times before – deflated Claire and she loosened her grasp, turning away from the scene. She lifted her thumb to her mouth and started to chew the nail.

“I have a history with his girlfriend – with Havannah. We fell out.”

Kristi answered with a weariness that both women noticed. The officer gave a strained smile as she took a note, before rising to her feet, knocking a coaster off the table as she did. Nobody mentioned it.

“We’ll need you to come down to the station to give a formal statement when you’re ready. And I’d recommend going to the minor injuries unit and getting checked out – it’ll help when pressing charges, and they should be able to give you something for the pain and check for any serious damage. We'll also be in touch later on to arrange a formal statement and provide a crime number, OK?”

Kristi nodded, the light catching her eye as it streamed through a small gap in the blinds. She realised they hadn’t opened them fully yet, casting half the room in darkness, while the patio door flooded the kitchen in brightness. There was nothing Kristi wanted more than to be able to claw her way back to that brightness, but there was a cloud above her head that thickened as it curled in the stratosphere. It was too late to find the light again.

Damon arrived shortly after noon. By then, Claire had long tired of caring for her sister, leaving her to sulk on the sofa while she busied herself upstairs doing nothing of substance. The blinds remained closed. At first – when Kristi realised that Claire wasn’t coming to answer the door no matter how many times she tried to call her – she tried to lean across to them, parting the white wooden slats just enough to catch sight of their visitor. With no success, Kristi held onto the arm rest with one hand and used the other to support her side.

A searing pain danced along her ribcage as she rose, fizzing into frustration when the doorbell was rung a second time.

“I’m coming!” she yelled, shuffling to the door and pulling it open.

“Oh my God,” Damon said as his eyes examined Kristi’s face. She wondered if he’d rehearsed the reaction many times or just the once.

Her hair was tied back, but without the usual tightness she wore for work. Instead, the strands were lazily loose, though her hair was still out of her face enough to expose the extent of the bruising on her face. In the sunlight, the flowers beneath her skin were brighter than even she had noticed. Kristi could see that Damon wanted to comfort her; it was in his expression and the way the hand holding a bouquet of luscious red roses had dropped to his side. She still refused to take her eyes off him, even now – even when he seemed to be performing a good deed.

“Are you alright?” he asked, stepping up to the front door before she could invite him in, lightly touching his fingers against her jaw on her uninjured side.

Kristi stepped back to allow him space to enter, fighting the desire to be held by Damon. The flood was swelling behind her eyes, and the familiarity of his touch – and the unconditional nature of his feelings – hammered at the wall holding the tears back. She knew, however, that she only wanted someone to comfort her. Kristi knew better. She simply shook her head and moved back towards the sofa. Damon rushed to her side, flowers still dangling by the crook of a finger, a free hand hovering above her lower back should she need it.

“Do you need anything?” he asked, sitting in the spot the police officers had previously occupied on the sturdy wooden table. Kristi didn’t mind this time – or at least, she couldn’t concentrate on minding with the throbbing headache starting up again.

“Just some water,” she replied, reaching for the painkillers resting on the edge of the table. Damon spotted the movement and handed them to her, before heading into the kitchen and retrieving a glass of water. He brought it to her then vanished while she gulped down two more pills. From the sofa, she could hear the clinking of a vase against a tap and the gushing of water for the flowers. Kristi sunk back into the cushions, the depth of the situation just out of sight from her place in the shadows.

Damon returned, smiling with pity, and stroked a stray strand of hair from Kristi’s face. She awkwardly returned the smile and pulled it back behind her ear where it could stay until she could be bothered to re-tie the ponytail.

“I hope they get him before I see him,” Damon said, catching Kristi off guard.

His voice was tinged with a venomous menace that drew her attention fully to Damon’s face. He looked tired recently – more so than usual – and his eyes had started to sink into their sockets, sleepless nights painted beneath them in smudges of gloom and gloaming.

“The police came into the bar," he added when Kristi offered nothing to fill the silence.

“When?” she asked, snapping to attention.

“About an hour ago. I told them where to find him, so shouldn’t be too long before he’s locked up.”

Kristi groaned, and Damon motioned to – what, reach out? Cradle her? He looked at his own hands as he moved and realised he didn’t know the answer either. He let them rest on his knees instead.

“Have you given a statement yet?”

“No… And how do you know about all of this?” Kristi asked, closing her eyes and grimacing as the thrumming headache evolved into a sprawling fog that rolled over her thoughts, obscuring them from view.

“Claire phoned me. Is she here?”

Damon looked about the place, expectantly.

“She’s upstairs,” Kristi answered, leaning her head back. She wanted all of this to end – the interrogations, the pain, the caring.

“Hey.”

This time, Damon reached out with purpose, his fingers slipping beneath Kristi’s hand. She realised for the third time that day how much she hated the way people kept doing that, as if that’s what she wanted – to be reassured with a squeeze of her hand. Feeling another’s clammy skin on her own wouldn’t solve any of her issues, and the fleeting desire to have Damon's comfort had been exactly that - it was gone almost as soon as she had felt it.

Despite the silent protestations, Kristi let her hand be lifted and held, in too much discomfort to simply snatch it away.

“Can I ask you something?”

The churning came back, and Kristi lifted her head and her eyelids, squinting through the pain. She didn’t want to be asked anything more – especially if it repeated the police officers’ script. Through one squinted eye, Kristi could see that Damon looked nervous about the question, and her mind began racing to the possibilities.

“When you talk to the police, I need you to keep Havannah’s name out of this. I gave them Ronan’s – Patrick mentioned him a few times – so there’s no reason to bring Havannah into this, right?”

Both of Kristi's eyes flared open, tightening into a furious, disbelieving glare. The headache worsened in response, pounding against her skull as her heartbeat rose.

“What?”

Damon recognised he’d hit a landmine. He couldn’t tell whether to step off it or press harder – let go of her hand or hold on tighter. Bravely, he chose the latter, shuffling to the very edge of the coffee table and recruiting his other hand to further clasp Kristi’s. Their eyes met.

“Are you fucking joking? Is this about that fucking business you’ve got going on with Patrick?”

“Kristi, look…”

“No, you look,” she shouted, pulling her hand away. A stabbing soreness tore through the side of her body in reaction to the jerking motion, but Kristi didn’t let it show on her face. “I have bent over backwards every single time you’ve asked me to put my feelings aside. Now we’re here and your first thought is still Havannah and her dad.”

“She didn’t do this though, did she?” Damon asked, coolly, a finger tracing Kristi’s bruises in the air.

“That’s not the point. It doesn’t matter who did it when that’s your first thought.”

The pain found its courage again and swarmed across Kristi’s skull. She slumped back into the sofa and crossed her arms, taking comfort once more in the blinds and the shy sunlight.

“I think you should go.”

“You’re right. And I will. But…”

Kristi saw then the flicker of nerves appearing on Damon’s face again. His neck was red where he’d scratched the stubble out of frustration, his skin pallid from stress and malnutrition. For a moment, Kristi could tell exactly what he was thinking. Damon was hurtling towards the edge of a waterfall, and Patrick’s investment was the only life raft that might soften the blow.

“I won’t mention Havannah,” she sighed, defeated, knowing it was already too late. “Now please just...leave me alone.”

Kristi curled up to one side on the sofa and closed her eyes. She couldn’t help but wonder what kind of timeline she was making for herself now.

***

When the police approached Simon at the ring toss game, he was reminded of a singular rule that their dad had hammered into both brothers: never tell the police anything.

Although there were many rules in their household, this was the one Jim Costello had been most insistent on. He had, after all, seen too many of his own friends and family members accosted by the law. In the eyes of the ignorant, they had all been simply another Traveller stereotype, the particulars of their community dismissed by the ignorant and the prejudiced. They had all suffered at the hands of that ignorance, and Jim didn’t want that for his sons.

The officers had arrived shortly after Ronan had left for a lunch break, leaving Simon to console a young girl who had been unable to win the cuddly toy she had wanted.

Although he couldn’t simply hand her a prize – another of his dad’s golden rules – Simon still dropped a few more rings in front of the girl, letting the colourful plastic clatter hopefully against the surface. The disappointment in her face evaporated, and Simon felt he’d done a good deed, even though the girl’s dad looked exhausted at the prospect of watching his daughter throw yet more hoops. Still, he gave Simon a pursed smile, grateful at least to have not had to spend any more money. She began to throw the next batch, the sound of plastic clinking against thickened glass.

Simon had let the police wait long enough. He’d spotted them long before they had reached the game, but had held onto the hope that they weren’t heading for him at all. Worry bubbled in his gut as he turned to them, and he suddenly wished Ronan was there with him. He thought of his brother and his charms – and of his dad’s words, a mantra repeated over and over again in his head – and greeted the police with a smile.

“What can I do for you, officers?” he asked, leaning against the counter and swallowing the fear that kept rising with a quiver from his gut.

“Simon Costello?”

Simon nodded. He could feel beads of sweat tickling the edge of his hairline. Was a nod breaking his father’s rule? Had he already said too much? The intricacies and implications of his dad’s directive suddenly came into full view, and Simon’s anxiety doubled at the prospect of having to interpret the rule in real-time.

“We’re looking for your brother, Ronan Costello. Do you know where he is?”

This time, he made no gesture – no movement or expression to indicate he even knew who Ronan was.

“I’m afraid I don’t, officers.”

“Will he be back soon?”

“I’m not sure, officers,” Simon answered, hands clasped together tightly now, the word ‘officers’ repeated through clenched teeth. He wanted this over quickly.

“Is there a way we can reach him?” the female officer asked, looking irate and sweaty in her uniform, the sun beating down upon the pier.

“Let me guess,” the male officer interjected as Simon opened his mouth. “You’re not sure?”

“You beat me to it, officer. But I’ll let him know you were looking for him.”

Realising he’d given away at the very least that Ronan was indeed his brother, Simon quickly changed tact.

“Would you like a throw?” he asked, retrieving two hoops from the basket beneath the counter and sliding them towards the officers. "On the house, of course."

They exchanged an angry look between them, their patience with the young man and the summer heat running thin, and turned away to radio in a report. Simon’s fake smile dropped with relief, the muscles in his face tired from pretending.

“I won!” came a cry from the little girl.

Ronan turned to see her jubilantly pointing to the giant smiling octopus toy hanging from the top of the stall.

“I want that one, I want that one!” she insisted, repeatedly.

“I’ll be right with you,” Simon said, reaching for the bell they used to announce winners.

As he turned his gaze back to the officers, however, Simon’s eyes betrayed him. They momentarily stalled in their movement, catching on the sight of Ronan laughing with Havannah as they made their way through the crowd, sharing the last of their chips between them. The female police officer looked up and spotted the glitch in Simon’s expression, like a snag in a jumper, and traced his eyeline with her own.

“There,” she pointed out, sharply, drawing her colleague’s attention.

By the time his mistake dawned on him, it was too late. All Simon could do was warn Ronan and hope that his brother would recognise what was happening. Fuelled by desperation, Simon pulled hard on the bell's rope, over and over again, metal clanging against metal so loudly that he could feel the shockwaves in his bones. Passers-by glared at him and the deafening commotion, and the little girl covered her ears in contempt.

Ronan, in mid-conversation, heard the bell and looked over at Simon desperately pointing towards the police officers trying to part the crowds to get to him.

“I have to go,” he said suddenly, stopping dead in his tracks.

“What’s going on?” Havannah asked, her words tripping beneath the feet of the crowd all around them.

“I’ll call you,” he said, his words trailing behind him.

Ronan was already gone once the officers reached Havannah. She watched him diving between tourists, only looking back to see how much of a head start he had, before losing sight of him completely near the Waltzer.

The officers ignored Havannah and sped up their pursuit, the male officer barking “Police!” while his colleague made a garbled announcement into the radio attached to her vest. The crowd pulsed lazily around them, and by the time the officers reached the end of the pier, Ronan had vanished.

Stunned, Havannah made her way to Simon, glancing back periodically to join the other witnesses in following the action. She had lost sight of Ronan almost immediately, and the officers not long after that.

“What was that all about? What’s going on?”

Simon shrugged and Havannah noticed a light tremble running through his limbs. He had become pale, his eyes trained on the crowd for any commotion that might tell him if his brother had been caught or not.

“Excuse me? Can we get our prize please?”

"He'll be with you in a second," Havannah's smile unwavering even as the father huffed. She looked back to Simon and spoke gently. "Hey, Simon. We have company."

Simon’s eyes fluttered as he came back to life.

"Oh, right..."

Havannah waited, leaning with her elbows on the counter, glad that he had understood the code – get rid of the little player and her dad so we can talk. She watched as Simon reached for the stuffed octopus, directed by the precocious little girl’s demands – No, not that one. That one. To the right. It has a happier face – handing it over with a strained grimace. The dad took the octopus before the stuffed toy could swallow his daughter and stumbled away from the ring toss, following his little darling as she pointed out the doughnut stand.

“I don’t know what to do," Simon confessed, returning to Havannah.

His voice was more present now and normal business had been resumed, the pier's crowd already forgetting anything had been amiss at all.

“I’m going to try calling him. I’ll let you know if I hear anything,” Havannah said, relying on her level head to keep them both afloat.

Before she could leave though, the question darted onto her tongue, and she had to ask. “Why did he run? He wouldn’t have done anything bad, would he?”

Havannah couldn’t read Simon’s expression, the muscles reshaping themselves to reflect too many emotions at once. They fluctuated between concern, shame, anxiety, anger…

“We were told not to say anything to the police,” he said, reciting his father’s words. “I’m sure he didn’t do anything wrong. He wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t he?” Havannah asked. She needed to know for herself. The reality of how little she knew Ronan had touched upon the fringes of her mind, and she needed reassurance from Simon.

“No, he wouldn’t," the young man repeated, firmly. The disgust on his face was clear.

Havannah’s cheeks felt hot with embarrassment. She hadn’t meant it as an accusation, but there wasn’t time to explain what she had meant.

“I’m sorry, Simon. I didn’t mean…I’m just trying to understand. I’ll be back later,” Havannah said, not waiting for forgiveness; she didn’t have time for it to be granted.

***

James Costello – Jim to his friends – felt he had brought his sons up to be the men he had always wanted them to be. They had responded well to the needs of the community into which they had been born, and they had kept his many lessons in mind when navigating the world. And yet, Jim found his confidence fraying at the edges as the police officers pulled up on the campsite.

This wasn’t the first time he’d had the police talking to him about his boys, but previous instances had revolved around the usual trouble kids got into. Had they smashed a window? Was this their graffiti? Did they steal the chocolate bars? It was never his boys - not his Ronan and Simon - but by the very virtue of their upbringing, they were still the accused. Plus, it was always for those flimsy accusations that they seemed to send extra officers to talk to them, as if they were wandering into some dangerous territory instead of an undefended campsite. Jim didn’t like the idea that they were any less dignified than anybody else.

It was a surprise then that only two officers had come to talk about Ronan. They were both tall, white sleeves rolled up underneath their stab vest, and they walked with the cocksure arrogance of two men who were likely considered the hardest officers the local area could provide. Jim almost sighed when he saw them, one strutting over with his thumbs in his vest, the other laughing and lingering behind. He wondered who they had been raised to be.

Jim stepped out of the caravan, disturbing the dust dancing in a sunbeam as he did. The officers had disturbed the quiet. Jim’s eyes glanced around at the other caravans – four in total – and was both glad and disappointed that everybody else was back at the fairground. There was nobody to rely upon, but he could also keep whatever embarrassment his family might need to endure within the confines of a private conversation.

The officers approached and asked Jim to confirm his name. Where they stopped - at some distance - Jim continued to walk. He wanted them to know he wasn’t afraid, and that although he was a foot smaller than the tallest officer, his bare arms were hardened muscle from days spent working manual labour . The shorter officer, still a few paces behind his colleague where they stood, looked Jim up and down – the hair tickling the edge of his vest, the weather-worn face with sapphire-clear eyes, the stockiness of his frame. This officer didn’t seem as cocky at the sight of the approaching man. Jim was sure he was ready to grab his radio for back-up.

“We’d like to talk to you about your son, Ronan.”

“Oh? What would you like to talk about?” Jim asked, gruffly, but with the clarity of a man who had navigated situations such as this one many times before.

He rested his fists on his hips, knuckles digging into his jeans. The tallest officer didn’t look impressed, his head turning to give his colleague a knowing glance. This one will be trouble, it said.

“A woman was seriously assaulted last night. We believe your son was involved."

For a moment, Jim considered breaking his own rule. He could tell them that Ronan had been here with him, or he could say nothing. Would they believe the former? Would they forgive the latter?

“Well you’ll need to talk to him about that then won’t you?”

“That's the thing, Mr Costello. We can’t find your son. Ronan ran when he saw two of our colleagues. Which tells us…”

“Tells you what?” Jim asked, shifting his weight onto one leg and leaning forward, readying himself to pounce – though he knew he wouldn’t. The smaller officer took a step back, his hands still resting on the radio attached to his vest.

“It tells us,” the tall officer spoke pointedly, annoyed at being interrupted, “That he’s got something to hide. So, if he’s here, I suggest you let us speak to him.”

“He’s not here. Look around. Nobody’s here.”

“And why are you?”

“Because I’ve got bookkeeping to do. Not that it’s any of your business.”

The tall officer had clearly reached the end of his patience, and moved to walk past Jim, rolling his eyes.

He sighed and called out, “Ronan Costello! Please make yourself known.”

There was no response. The campsite remained silent, save for the wind rustling the tops of the nearby trees, the song of a small bird, and the distant chirping of crickets in the late afternoon heat. They lingered like that, all three frozen in position, listening out for Ronan to respond or make a noise. Nothing.

“We need to take a look inside your caravan,” the officer said, though before he could take another step, Jim had positioned himself in front of the officer and held a hand out, palm hovering an inch or so from the other man’s chest.

“Without a warrant, officer?”

The officer sneered at Jim, casting his eyes downwards. His mouth twisted into a hungry grin.

"Don't think that's necessary for a tin can, do you?"

"I wouldn't if I were you," Jim replied, both men glowering at one another while the second officer readied the radio for a report of trouble.

Jim pointed to one of the other caravans with a sturdy finger, indicating towards the small black globes sitting on the side of each of them, positioned just by the door frames.

“We all have cameras installed. You know what it’s like, kids want to come and spray ‘gypsy scum’ on your caravan, or local police think they can make an example out of you for whatever they can pin on ‘your kind’. Wouldn’t want your superiors to see you make the same mistake, would you?”

Jim’s face had darkened considerably. The officer clenched his jaw in frustration, used to being the dominant presence in the local community; he had met his match in an unmovable force. He stepped back and straightened up.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Mr Costello. I'll be back with that warrant and a few more colleagues. Let’s hope Ronan makes himself known before then, eh?”

He turned his back to Jim and led his colleague away, muttering angrily under his breath. Jim couldn’t make out the words, but he knew what they were. He always knew what they said about him and his family.

Jim stalked back to the caravan. Inside, the light had grown murky, dimming further once he closed the door behind him. If the officers had checked, they would have learned that this wasn’t his caravan at all – it belonged to the campsite owner, and for the summer, it housed Jim and his bookkeeping while Ronan and Simon took their family's caravan. It was only a matter of time before that fact was uncovered and a search warrant was secured, simply by asking the owner. At that point, there would be trouble for the group whether Ronan was here or not, the tall officer's vague threats playing on Jim's mind. Their future here was in jeopardy.

Lingering in the doorway a little longer, hand pressed against the kitchen worktop, Jim sighed. He had hoped for an uneventful summer.

"You can come out now," he said, seemingly to an empty room.

A shuffling noise came in reply as Ronan emerged from his place curled up beneath the table. His hair was out of place and one cheek was flushed red from where it had been pressed as closely as possible to the caravan's rough carpet.

Jim sat down on the sofa, wearily, and Ronan joined him.

For a moment, father and son were silent in each other's company, but it was far from a peaceful silence. Beneath it, Jim's anger was building.

With surprising agility that defied his build, Jim grabbed Ronan by the scruff of his shirt, pulling him half across the table.

"Dad! Get off!"

“Is it true?” Jim roared, louder than he had meant to.

“Let go!” Ronan said, struggling against his father's grip.

"Is it?!"

“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to have done! I saw them talking to Simon and I just…ran. I didn't know what else to do... I’m not like you.”

Ronan's words were breathless and garbled, panic rising in his voice. None of the bravado he had shown on the pier - the charming winks and loveable patter - was any use in a situation in which he felt so utterly out of his depth.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jim snarled, his grip tightening. Ronan thought the t-shirt might rip at any moment.

“I mean I can’t keep my cool in that situation. If they’d spoken to me, I would’ve fallen to pieces. Let me go,” Ronan pleaded, struggling. He grabbed his dad’s wrist, the hand unclenched, and he dropped back into his seat.

The silence returned, pouring into the space to fill the gap where the struggle and the gasping had been. Jim clenched his fists and brought them to his mouth, elbows on the table. He looked like he was praying for the strength to understand.

“They’re saying you assaulted someone last night," Jim asked, calmly, eyes closed now. He touched each word delicately.

“I was here. I was here, with you,” Ronan said, his voice rising with the furious disbelief that there was even a fraction of doubt in his dad’s mind.

“They didn’t say when it happened.”

“Dad, look at me.”

Jim hesitated, though he did open his eyes to meet his son's. His son who they had always declared a lover, not a fighter. Their son who had never been in a fight before, never gotten into actual trouble, never given them a reason to worry. Jim exhaled, defeated, and rested back against the seat.

“You need to talk to them.”

“But…”

“I know. I know how I brought you two up. But I’m starting to regret it. If you hadn’t run away, they wouldn’t be so hellbent.”

“If I'd stayed put, I’d be in a cell now while they decide what to pin on me instead. You were the one who always said that.”

Desperation painted Ronan’s face in hues of pale anxiety and stressed scarlets. Jim knew all too well that he had created this uncertainty and fear in his son, but it had come from a place of caring – of ensuring neither Ronan nor Simon ever faced what he had.

“You need to get back to your mum then. Go home, Ronan.”

“How?”

His father paused for a moment to think. Jim ran through the options in his mind, speaking aloud to think through each of them.

“If you take my car, they’ll spot you at the first traffic lights you reach. You’ll need to get a bus to the nearest train station, stay out of sight and don’t speak to anybody.”

“Won’t they look for me at home?”

“I’ll phone your mum. Your aunt can collect you from the station and you can stay with her. This’ll blow over. It usually does once a suspect leaves the area. These local coppers just want a quiet life. Arresting drunken tourists, helping sheep get home. Boring stuff.”

"What if it doesn't?"

Jim had no answer - at least not one that led somewhere he didn't like. It was a local woman's word against his son's, and if he stayed then Ronan would be the scapegoat. If it didn't blow over, and they continued to pursue him, would they ever give up? Or would he be making it worse for his son? He felt hemmed in, the walls of the caravan pressing tighter against them. Jim just wanted a quiet summer with his boys...

"Stick to the plan," was all he could manage, the words firm more than they were reassuring. And yet, the reassurance came from how reliably Jim had spoken - a strength Ronan could depend upon. He felt confident in the plan only because his dad delivered it without emotion. Had he known that Jim's own confidence was hollow, his stoicism a falsity, Ronan might have been reluctant to go. His father knew this.

“Okay…Okay. I’ll leave.” There was another lingering pause. "Thanks dad."

Ronan packed his bag quickly and messily, stuffing clothes and toiletries into the holdall and throwing a thin jacket on for himself, with a hood he could use to keep his face out of sight of any cameras he might meet.

Part of him wanted to stay rooted, wait for the police to come back and talk to them - reason with them. Maybe they would believe him after all. Or maybe they would arrest him for obstruction, and they would realise that the cameras his dad had pointed out were dummies, and that only his word would stand between him and a courtroom. He was angriest at himself now, for running instead of keeping his cool; for listening to fear instead of taking Havannah’s hand and talking to the officers, drawing on the strength of someone who cared and would stay by his side. After all, he had stuck by hers.

Ronan slung the holdall over his shoulder and waved a small, hesitant goodbye to Jim, who only nodded from the doorway of the caravan in reply. Some part of Ronan had wished his dad would embrace him or wish him well. Anything to reassure Ronan that he believed him.

There was, however, someone he knew would believe him. As he made his way across the grass, Ronan promised himself that he would call Havannah as soon as he made it through the rows of trees waiting ahead of him. At the edge of the woods, he took a chance to stop and look back at the campsite – the wide expanse of grass and the small cluster of caravans and the toilet block, the gravel road that wound through the trees on the far side and led to the main road; their home for the summer. He looked at his own caravan and the roof on which he and Simon spent so many mornings watching the sun, and Ronan wished that he could live in frozen moments such as that one, passing from one to another, always safe and always happy; mornings with Simon, afternoons with Havannah, evenings with both of them. A slideshow of glorious seconds with nothing inbetween. He felt like he was saying goodbye to more than just a campsite; it was a goodbye to peace, and to the life he’d enjoyed - and it was a goodbye to summer.

***

Through the open shop door, the occasional gust of warm afternoon air worried the named bookmarks hanging on a rack by the window. Envy was grateful for any respite from the stale, stuffy heat that weighed down the shop and sat unwanted on her chest.

For over an hour – long past closing time – an American couple had been the only customers in the shop, trying to decide between two snow globes with all the seriousness of selecting baby names or which exit to take off the motorway.

Bored, Envy leaned on the shop counter and fanned herself with a pamphlet for the nearest tourist attraction. She paused, curious, and looked at the pamphlet, creased from where her finger and thumb had held it rigid. Chesham’s Circus was emblazoned in big yellow letters. Images of ringmasters, lions, and even acrobats were splashed around the edges. Envy read the cover slowly, the heat forcing her to re-tread her steps over and over. The pamphlet read ‘Coming June 2017 – book now!’; it was woefully out of date. She had found it in the stack of colourful marketing that littered the far corner of the counter, untouched by any customer. How long had they been there? How long had she?

“We’ll go with this one,” the chirpy American woman announced, placing their purchase in front of Envy.

Inside the snow globe – the glass now smudged with greasy fingerprints – was the pier in winter, supposedly, though Envy knew all too well that the darker months by the sea weren’t as bright and joyous as the trinket would suggest. There was also far less snow.

With a heavy finger, Envy punched the price into the till, trying to ignore the staring Americans.

“Nine pounds fifty, please,” she asked, gritting her teeth as the woman counted coins from a pool of change in her husband's cradled hands.

"Sorry, we haven't quite got the hang of this yet," the man laughed.

Envy waited, silently, as each coin was placed on the counter one by one. When they at last declared – almost in unison – that they thought they’d got it, Envy slid the change across the glass surface and into the palm of her hand. She didn’t count it, just dumping it in the till and reaching for a gift bag.

Content with their purchase, the Americans wished her a super day and turned to leave. As they headed through the door, Envy noticed them passing by a panting figure who had stepped aside to let them leave. It was Havannah, sweating and impatient.

“I don’t have long – I’m on a break. Have you seen Ronan? The guy I was in here with a few weeks back.”

Envy hesitated, though shook her head with a frown. Havannah’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. She let herself into the shop, crossing the threshold and approaching Envy at the counter.

“What is it?”

“I know you care about him, but…she’s really hurt you know.”

“Who is? Who’s hurt?”

The knot had returned in Havannah’s brow, frustrated that others seemed to know more about this situation than she did. Her hands splayed out against the counter’s glass surface.

“Oh…you haven’t heard, have you?”

Envy’s frown dropped, replaced by something more sympathetic, and then worry. She bit her lip, contemplating what to say next. From this, Havannah could tell Envy had received the information against her will.

“Please, Envy. I’m having a very stressful afternoon. Tell me what you know and tell me very slowly.”

The news sat awkwardly between Simon and Havannah. They were sitting between the ring toss counter and the island of wooden pegs, surrounded by small plastic hoops, scattered on the floor or in piles, or sitting in the tubs affixed to the bottom of the counter. They made Havannah think of colourful confetti. She picked one up, scratched and worn from use, and span it around her index finger to keep her hands busy.

“He didn’t do anything,” Simon snapped aloud, arguing with a phantom detractor, though the heat and anxiety dampened the energy he meant for his brother’s defence to have.

He was sitting with his knees drawn up close to his chin, and Havannah noticed how he had started to gather some of the hoops in piles close to him, still working even now.

“I know, buddy,” Havannah said, shuffling closer and pulling Simon towards her.

He rested his head on her shoulder and she remembered then that he was two years younger than she was. At seventeen, he had spent the afternoon holding down the fort, waiting for his older brother to come back – he usually came back, didn’t he? – and sitting on the information Envy had shared with Havannah. Eventually, as the sun dipped lower and he could delay no more, Simon would have to sit on a bus by himself and tell his dad everything he knew, alone.

They stayed like that, huddled in the shadow of the ring toss counter for longer than was comfortable in the early evening heat. Simon was the first to move, getting to his feet to start collecting the last stray hoops from the far side of the game.

Havannah followed, squinting as the sun blazed across the pier, lighting it up with the last embers of the day.

“Can I help?” she asked, dropping the plastic ring she had been spinning on her finger into the nearest plastic trough.

“Thanks,” Simon said, and they both moved in silence, bending down to collect handfuls from the floor as the waves lapped against the pier’s support beneath them. The tide was drawing in.

“Thanks for believing in him,” he said, breaking the quiet. “Ronan’s too honest a man to lie. It’s a flaw of his. If we could just speak to him…”

A buzzing sound hummed from Havannah’s pocket. A number she didn’t recognise flashed up on the screen and Havannah’s heart skipped a beat. She knew it was him.

“Ronan?”

Simon whipped his head around, ears prickling at the sound of his brother’s name.

“I can’t hear you properly,” Havannah said, the signal dropping in and out. Wherever Ronan was, it was windy; great gusts blew his voice away into garbled ramblings.

Leaving the game and blocking one ear with her finger, Havannah strayed along the pier, closer to the shore. Simon followed her. All of the pier’s visitors had long gone, the gates ready to be locked once the sun had finished setting, and he found it eerie how quiet this stretch of wood and iron was, reaching silently towards the horizon.

Havannah hung up.

“Well? Where is he? What did he say?”

“He asked me to meet him.”

“Let’s go then,” Simon said, starting for the gate. Havannah stopped him, palm flat against his shoulder.

“No, Simon. I’m sorry, but…he said to go alone. He doesn’t want you to get into trouble,” she spoke quickly, sensing Simon’s displeasure. The upset was obvious in his face and the way he swung his arms behind his head, pacing in a circle. “I’ll let you know what he says, I promise.”

Simon ignored Havannah’s promises. He stopped pacing and landed at the edge of the pier along the wrought iron railing. He stared off into the distance to where the road wound uphill to the town and the cliffs rose up to houses and the graveyard. He felt alone, abandoned by his brother, in a place he didn’t belong. All Simon wanted at that moment was to go home – his real home, where his mother would be waiting to ask about the summer, ready to spoil him by listening to every boring detail. He missed his mum.

“I promise we’ll talk tomorrow,” Havannah said, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

Unprompted, Simon headed for the gate, head bowed and frustration clear. Havannah wanted to reach out and comfort him before he left. The problem was, she didn’t know how. The whole afternoon she had been dragged along in a game where everybody was playing by their own wildly different rules: Claire was poisoning minds from her tower, Envy had tried to pity her, and the Costello brothers had a whole code they kept to themselves and their community. Havannah was doing the best she could. There was comfort in repeating that to herself, no matter how little she believed it.

Patrick was a man of routine, winding down for the day with his paperwork strewn across the desk, shirt sleeves folded up to the elbows. In the background, his favourite jazz CD would be playing while overhead the lamp of his desk would emulate the last of the sun’s warmth. This was how he concentrated, at ease in his surroundings.

When Havannah burst through the door, out of breath and talking hurriedly, Patrick wasn’t taken aback. Instead, he looked up patiently, took his reading glasses off, folded their arms together, and gave his daughter all of his calm attention.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

“I’m sorry dad, I’ll explain later, I promise. Can I borrow your car, please?”

Patrick observed his daughter with an uncertainty that she would never understand. He trusted her with her own life and with his business. She was his right hand, a capable young woman with a level head. And although he knew the antics of nineteen-year-olds to be dramatic – everything was the end of the world at that age – he remained fiercely protective. He had, after all, lost his dearest Callie.

Patrick hesitated for a moment – one that unfolded a lot slower for him and lasted far longer than Havannah would ever know – and then reached for the keys in his jacket pocket, hanging over the back of his chair.

“I know you won’t tell me if I should be worried or not, so all I’ll say is that I trust you and drive safely,” he said, tossing the keys to Havannah. “And I want a full explanation at breakfast.”

“Thanks dad,” Havannah said, relieved.

“I love you, Havannah.”

She stopped in the doorway, the words grasping her ankles, and looked back at Patrick behind his desk, trusting her as he always did.

“Love you too, dad.”

Havannah felt every bump and stone in the treacherous dirt road that wound and climbed to the hill’s peak; her dad’s car was barely fit for such a journey. She took it slow, allowing herself time to scan the horizon for Ronan.

Overhead, clouds were greying both the honey-like skies and Havannah’s memories of summers gone by. Patrick and Callie had brought their daughter here many times before, growing up; they had shared a thermos of hot tea on winter walks, and picnicked by the stone whose etchings marked the distance from Clayham-on-Sea to London. Havannah had traced the numbers on the stone a dozen times, enjoying the feeling of history beneath her fingertips.

Now, something darker had formed above the area, and the present seemed much starker than her hazy recollection of the past.

The car struggled to go much further. When she was far enough along the dirt path, Havannah pulled over. In the distance, she could make out a lone figure barely silhouetted against the darkening sky. A stone wall separated them.

Havannah pulled the handbrake on and for a moment considered leaving the engine running. What if he needed her to help him escape? Could she? Was she even convinced that he had nothing to run from? The keys came out of the ignition and Havannah got out of the car, crossing the stile built into the crumbling wall, before clambering the rest of the way up the sloping hill.

Ronan spotted her approach and started a desperate, clumsy walk towards her, the holdall banging against his hip. His arms were outstretched, seeking comfort. Havannah hesitated, though relented when she saw the glistening in his eyes.

“I didn’t do anything, I promise. I’m not sure who I’m even supposed to have hurt,” he explained hurriedly into Havannah’s shoulder.

Havannah couldn’t explain whether it was the fear in his eyes or the sweetness of all the days they’d spent together that summer, but the doubtful voice had quietened, and she believed him. Even if she was wrong, Ronan was alone and had called only her – she couldn’t leave him now.

They tightened the embrace, relishing the sensation of holding one another.

“It was Kristi,” Havannah murmured, face pressed against Ronan’s jacket.

She felt Ronan loosen, and he stepped away to hold her at arm’s length.

“I don’t understand. I don’t even know her. Why would she say that?”

Havannah squirmed beneath her skin as the uncomfortable thought grew louder once again. It had been a temporary reprieve from suspicion. She had told Ronan all about Kristi just hours before the attack – he didn’t know her, but he did know of her.

“Where are you going?” she asked, spotting the holdall that had swung into her as they hugged, reaching for some distraction.

“I can’t say.”

“Ronan…”

“I can see it in your eyes, Hav. You don’t believe me. Not fully. Not really.”

Ronan gripped the strap of the holdall and stepped away from her.

“I’m trying to,” Havannah said, suddenly, more pleadingly than she had meant it to sound, “But…I still haven’t figured it all out.”

“You don’t need to ‘figure it all out’, Havannah. You don’t have to fix everything for everyone.”

“Then why did you call me and not Simon?”

Ronan dropped his gaze and hoisted the holdall strap further up his shoulder.

“Because I wanted to say goodbye. And I didn’t want him getting mixed up in all this. It’s bad enough the police spoke to him.”

“He didn’t tell them anything,” Havannah interjected quickly. She felt the need to come to Simon’s defence. “You would’ve been proud of him, actually. He stood his ground. He’s been worried about you all day.”

“This was a mistake…”

The words didn’t strike Havannah in the chest with the sharp force she expected. It felt instead like a painful inevitability that one of them would wake up and realise that this venture had been a bad idea. Still, tears rose, though she was unsure if they were a result of Ronan’s epiphany or the rising breeze that rippled over the hill, an exhalation from the sea.

“Ronan…I haven’t known you very long,” she began. He visibly tensed as she closed the gap between them and reached for his hand, tenderly. “But I think you’re a good man. I know you’re a good man. So, let’s go back and talk to the police – and to Kristi if we have to – and get this straightened out. Running away isn’t a good look.”

“I ran away from them. They’ve already got an excuse to arrest me, now they have two.”

“They have no proof. And I’ll be by your side the entire time. I’ll ask my dad about solicitors. I know what all of this is like, you know. I’ve been the odd one out my whole life – did you notice many other Black families living in our town all year round?” Havannah’s voice dropped, tiptoeing gently around her own pain, all the better to relate to Ronan.

She sought out his eyes – focused on the grass at their feet – and lifted his chin with her hand.

“I’m fond of you, Ronan Costello, and I’m not going to let you deal with this by yourself. OK?”

There was a pause and Ronan’s stare was suddenly more serious than she had ever seen. Serious, and hopeful – like his favourite sunrises.

“You could come with me.”

It wasn’t a question, or even a suggestion. Not really. It was a statement, a musing, a thought experiment where they could wonder about a world where they took the next step very differently.

For Havannah, it was an impossibility. Yes, she had decided to leave the town behind, but it was to be on her terms, having said goodbye to her dad with his blessing, to go and see the world and make her mark on it – not to flee, and to live in the shadows.

“I can’t. But I think you know that.”

Ronan nodded, crestfallen.

“Hey,” she said, drawing herself closer to him. A breeze ruffled Ronan’s sandy blond hair. It danced against the sky, helping the grey cotton wool clouds drift towards the horizon, and carried on over the rolling hills behind him. Havannah was reminded of the first time she’d seen him up close. His arms were hidden now, and his cheeky smile was put away, but she knew they were there, just out of sight, those lovely gifts of his.

Havannah pulled Ronan close and pressed her lips against his. He raised a hand to cradle her face and the kiss deepened. Their kiss was the last glimpse of sunshine.

Ronan pulled away with alarm. They both turned their attention to the muted blue lights flashing further down the dirt road, approaching the stone wall.

“You have to go,” Ronan said, spinning Havannah around and pushing her away from him. He didn’t ask which of them they had followed, or who might have given up his location, instead starting to purposefully stride towards the top of the hill as fast as he could, weighed down by the holdall. On the far side of the stone marker, he would be able to slide down a makeshift path and vanish into more trees, out of sight and one step closer to home.

Havannah watched as he started to go and found herself stuck where she was, the hill reaching up to grab a hold of her feet. Four police officers leapt from their cars, hurtling over the stile and the stone wall, homing in on Ronan at speed. She watched as he looked behind him, the realisation that he had underestimated their speed dawning on him. Ronan broke into a run, but the fastest of the police officers – a freckled woman who had easily outpaced them all – tackled him.

“No! Wait!” Havannah cried out. “You’re hurting him!”

There was nothing she could do. They pinned Ronan down and cuffed him, the struggle leaving his body where he had been winded by his collision with the ground. A male officer barked his rights at him and together they dragged Ronan – now looking so small, so defeated – to a standing position. Havannah spotted blood from where he had bitten his lip during the fall. His t-shirt was torn. The holdall was discarded.

He was escorted, forcefully, by the tall male officer, while the female officer shouldered his holdall. Despite Ronan’s lack of struggle, the ground was uneven, and Havannah could see how tightly they were holding onto him as he stumbled.

As they passed her, Ronan glanced at her and then away. She could never know how fast his heart was beating or how close he was to exhaling and never inhaling again. He needed to stay focused, rhythmically breathing with his straight ahead. He caught sight of the sea in the far distance, a murky line just out of sight.

“Please, listen to me,” Havannah said, her feet finally rediscovering movement, her voice finding itself. A third police officer – a short man with a young face already hardened with impatience – moved between Havannah and his colleagues as they led Ronan over the stile.

“Look, you can get out of the way and go home, or you can get in the car with him. Which is it?”

Havannah thought back to Ronan’s words. She couldn’t fix everything for everyone, it was true. But she could try – and she could do far more for him at home. Ronan didn’t look back even as Havannah willed him to.

She raised her hands to show her intention and gave the police some distance. There was too much to do if she was to help Ronan. The fight hadn’t left her but had poured into her resolve instead. She wiped a tear from her face, waited for the police to drive away, and got back into her dad’s car.

There was no Ronan, and there were no hikers. Havannah was alone in peaceful solitude on the hill. There was nobody to hear her let out a tearful, frustrated scream, muffled by the car’s metal cage and carried away by the last of the sea breeze.

***

The sun had dipped low when the knock came. Unlike all the other visitors that day, they hadn’t used the doorbell, and Kristi was quietly grateful of it; the chiming was inching her closer towards insanity.

“I’ll get it,” she said, before Damon could protest.

Claire said nothing from her corner of the sofa beneath the windowsill, her attention glued to her phone rather than the film playing out on the television screen.

Kristi’s pain had been dulled by strong painkillers, picked up from the chemist by Damon and hastily swallowed to numb all the feeling in her body. There was so much heaviness inside of her, yet her limbs felt full of air, buoyant and soft.

The buoyancy vanished once she opened the door, the weightlessness replaced with a thick gravity that sent Kristi plummeting into the pit of her own stomach and then further down, through her toes and into the earth.

“Hello. Sorry. I mean, sorry to bother you…I…I came to apologise.”

Kristi looked the man – the boy – up and down. He couldn’t meet her gaze and his chin was still grazed from the night before. He looked even younger in the rosy light of sunset than he had in the dark.

In his hands were a cheap box of chocolates she recognised from the corner shop two streets away, a card, and a bouquet of flowers – another bouquet to find a vase for, though they didn’t look like they’d last even as long as Victor’s wilted bunch from the day prior.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you. I don’t want any trouble with the police,” he said, pathetically offering up the gifts.

Shame flourished at the corners of Kristi’s vision, and she realised she was on the verge of tears, the guilt of what she’d done reaching critical mass in her ribcage.

“Oh shit,” the teenager said, panicking. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

Kristi closed her eyes and brought a hand to her mouth to try and stifle the crying and force the truth back inside of herself. If she opened her eyes now she knew she would see the teen’s face – not just in the here and now, painted in lilac by the sunset, but as it sped out of an alleyway on the back of a bike shrouded in darkness. She would recall the collision that sent her slamming into the wall and then the ground, the sound of the spinning wheel and his cursing. If she saw all of that, Kristi knew she would never be able to look at herself in the mirror again, knowing the truth and knowing the lie she had spun about Ronan.

Kristi took the gifts, smiled tearfully at the teenager, and just shook her head to say don’t worry about it – no actual words could be said without tears. He smiled back, and Kristi retreated into the house, bursting into tears. She slid down onto the floor, back pressed against the door, gifts splayed at her sides, limbs too weak to hold on.

A stunned silence hung in the room, a vacuum that sucked the sound from Kristi’s sobbing. She prised her eyes open and saw, through tears and another rising headache, the confusion on Damon and Claire’s faces. Claire was kneeling on the sofa, two fingers still parting the blinds, mouth agape as she watched the teenager go. Damon’s face was less shocked, but the calmness that washed over it made Kristi fearful.

“Who was that?” Claire asked, the rest of her body refusing to move, the shock of the revelation a flashbulb freezing her in time.

“Kristi?” Damon asked, crouching down to her. Kristi couldn’t tell if it was to comfort or chastise. Rather than run the risk of having her flaws prodded, her shame examined on display, she pulled herself up and ran for the stairs, pushing past Damon as she went.

“What the fuck,” Claire said, releasing the blinds. “She made it all up.”

Damon rounded on her fast, suddenly towering over the young woman on the sofa. A menacing cloud formed on his brow, casting shadows across his complexion. There was nothing cordial or friendly left in his expression.

“We didn’t see or hear any of that. Understood?”

“Are you fucking mental?” Claire exclaimed, standing to meet Damon now, though he still had an extra head and a half on her height.

Damon didn’t take kindly to this supposed show of defiance. His voice lowered and without moving an inch, Claire felt his presence enveloping her; she was no match.

“We didn’t see or hear any of that, did we? Because if we did – if you did – it would mean you helped Kristi to lie to the police. And,” this time he did move, forcing Claire to fall back onto the sofa as he crouched down so their faces were dangerously close, “If Kristi lied, you might lose her.”

Damon searched the girl’s face for a reaction. He didn’t know her particularly well, but it felt like an easy gamble to assume Claire would feel strongly about this fact. Her twitch in her face was the traitor.

“So, I’ll ask again: do you understand, Claire?”

Her anger – known for being white hot, sometimes careless, and often rooted in selfishness – was extinguished by cold fear. It was a fear of Damon, a fear of the police, and a fear – most of all – of losing her grip on Kristi. Claire nodded, defeated. The defiance was gone, and she could do nothing but shrink into the sofa.

Satisfied, Damon left her alone, heading for the stairs. He took a few steps before stopping and looking once more over at the younger woman.

“I told your sister I’d look after her. And I meant it. Whatever that looks like.”

Claire said nothing, humbled in her own home. Damon stalked up the rest of the stairs, and she felt herself exhale for the first time since Kristi had answered the door. Brimming with nervous energy, Claire quietly looked out of the parted blinds once again. The teenager was gone, and with him he took what she thought she knew about her sister.