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white horses to shore, son, and they come ashore, they come off the ship.’
    Patrick’s blood ran cold, then, deliciously. Margaret made a disbelieving noise: there was, she said, no such thing as ghosts. Their father laughed, then. ‘We’ll see,’ he said. This was earlier: a day or so earlier, in the hot back garden of their new house in Derry. Planning the trip, selecting the beach. ‘We’ll see. Make a change, anyway,’ he said, ‘from Buncrana. We’ll go a little bit further afield,’ he said to them, privately, ‘this time.’ Then he went indoors and Patrick and Margaret, focused now on other matters on which could make common cause: there would be chocolate waiting for them tomorrow; there would be ice cream, maybe. They sat in the sun and discussed ice cream, until it was time to come inside for tea.
    And now Patrick ducked his head into the icy water and the sea enveloped him. He would be the first to see the shipwreck, the bones, the skeletons of Spanish sailors, the chests of golden treasure. He opened his eyes: green sunlit water, a thick strand of waving, drifting seaweed. He closed his eyes and rose to the surface, emerged with a pop, and another breath and down again – the water less cold now, and bones to be discovered – and now he felt his leg grasped, and he was yanked down, towards the sandy, rocky bottom of the sea.
    *
    Margaret’s throat was tight with rage and frustration. How dare he, how dare they, how dare Patrick and how dare their father? How dare they and how dare they?
    ‘Not out of your depth, Margaret,’ her daddy said, behind her, from the shallows: he was wading, his trouser legs turned up neatly. ‘Go carefully, please.’ He said to her. Not to Patrick, who was younger, but who was allowed to wade into the deep water, who could go out of his depth, who was first to take a breath and plunge his head into the waves.
    Who was a boy.
    She ignored her daddy; she waded faster. Her daddy didn’t want to get his trousers wet: she knew this, she’d trade on it. She moved faster, out of his reach, out of her depth: the sandy bottom fell away, she took a breath and plunged and opened her eyes – all suddenly, suddenly, not a moment to lose, the water green and cold, pressing against her wide eyes – and now she saw her brother’s left leg, and she caught at it and pulled.
    She’d teach him.
    She could feel his panic, there in the green water. He was out of his depth now – well out – and he kicked away, but she yanked again, harder. She’d teach him a lesson, she had the advantage of surprise, she yanked again: she’d show them who was strongest and cleverest – and she didn’t need her father to say so, besides.
    And suddenly now her brother’s face appeared, white and ghost-like in the green water: they were face to face and his right leg and his arms were thrashing and his eyes wide with shock and fear – and in a horrified, blurred moment she released her grasp of his other leg.
    For another instant they stared, suspended, their eyes wide open in the water – and now she felt herself yanked in her turn and pulled upwards – and she surfaced, streaming water, and there he was, her father, livid and streaming too; and now Patrick popped to the surface of the water beside her. His hands were empty: no treasure, no bones; she knew what he was looking for. And now she was pulled ashore.
    ‘What were you doing? What the hell did you think you were doing?’
    ‘I was swimming, diving.’
    ‘I saw what you were doing. Wait ’til I get you home.’ Seawater ran down her father’s face. Yes, livid: she’d be thrashed this evening, when they got home. So he said – though he’d cool down, later. He never thrashed. And even now he was cooling: the beach had filled up a little, even in these last few minutes, and there was too much of an audience for him; he was cooling right down. She sensed this, her escape from a promised thrashing – but running alongside this