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don’t though. I’ve stopped doing that all the time. It cured me, hearing Mum night after night. It doesn’t do any good, not after a while.
    I decide I’ll just go and sit on the fishing rocks; I don’t have to fish, I’ll just see what it’s like sitting there. And I can think about Joe, and see what happens. If no one else is there, that is.
    But someone is. Why am I surprised, even, that it’s that boy again? Joe’s shadow. I’m about to turn back but he’s seen me and he waves. So I go on. He stands up, and he walks to the edge of the biggest rock which is nearest the cliff, and he holds his hand out to help me do the jump across the gap, as if he knows I might be scared, but without saying anything. So I start liking him a bit, right then.
    I’ve done the jump across before. It’s better not to look down. It’s hardly any distance across, but there’s a deep drop and the sea is always boiling and churning as it’s squeezed along the gap between the rocks. If you fell you’d be smashed up quite badly.
    â€˜It’s a good place for mackerel,’ the boy says. ‘They come in really close, because the water’s so deep.’
    â€˜I know,’ I say. ‘I’ve been here loads of times.’
    He threads a silver sand eel on to a hook. Casts the line out. Stands with his back to me. I wait. It’s so like being with Joe I can hardly breathe. My hands shake when I try to open the box.
    â€˜It’s my first holiday here,’ the boy says. ‘Every one else at the campsite seems to have been a million times. Are you camping?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Nice fishing rod,’ he says after a long gap.
    I almost laugh, but I can see how shy he is, and he’s trying to be friendly, and Miranda’s a long way away and she’ll never know about this particular conversation, so I make a big effort to be friendly back.
    â€˜It was my grandpa’s,’ I say. ‘I stay with him and my gran every summer. I’m Freya.’
    â€˜Danny,’ he says. ‘You can borrow some bait, if you want.’
    For one horrible moment I think he’s about to hand me a heap of pink wriggling meal worms. But he shoves a bucket with his foot. ‘Help yourself.’
    And that’s how I come to hook my first ever sand eel, eyes wide open, holding my breath. Sorry , I say in my head to the sand eel as I skewer it. I catch my first ever mackerel by myself soon after. Me and Danny catch three each. After the first one, Danny takes over the actual killing bit, flipping the fish against the rock so it dies quickly, but I’m glad I’ve done one, at least. Joe would be proud of me. I can almost hear his voice, telling me. But he’s not here. There’s no sense of him at the fishing rock today, and I know there can’t be, not with Danny here too.
    Danny’s excitement is catching. He does a kind of dance there on the rock. He’d go on catching fish after fish, if he had his way.
    â€˜That’s enough,’ I tell him. ‘We shouldn’t be greedy. Just get enough for supper.’
    We walk back together. Danny’s already planning a barbecue. He’s seen too many of those telly programmes – cooking wild food . . . living off the land . . . whatever. He talks about finding edible seaweed and all sorts. ‘We might find marsh samphire, if we look. It tastes a bit like asparagus.’
    He sees my face. ‘What is it? What’s the matter? Freya?’
    â€˜Got to go.’ I manage to spit out the words. Then I start running.
    I leave him way behind, looking puzzled, those stupid dead fish dangling from his line. I don’t care what Danny thinks any more. All I can think about is getting away, being alone. Samphire. The name no one’s said for nearly a year.

Eight
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    Last summer
    August 14th
    Dave and Huw