‘Stop it,’ says Devlin. He grasps my shoulders. The dark presses in around us. ‘What did you say?’ I shout at him. There is water, wet and cold, on my cheeks, there is salt in my mouth. It can’t be tears. He says, confused, ‘I brought your diary.’ ‘I thought you were my brother.’ I twist. He doesn’t let me go. The trees scratch the dark bowl of sky. There is just the two of us. I know I’ll never see my brother again, probably never even find his body. The cold eats into my spine. I shiver and put my hands over my eyes. Devlin’s grip on my arms tightens. I sense he wants to – what? push me away? pull me to him? There is that familiar smell – the Scotch and mouthwash. He is a dark shape in front of me, boxing me in, unable to help. I feel dark ice growing around us. I say, ‘You can’t comfort me. You can’t even help someone in distress because you’re so damaged yourself.’ His face is a dark country of valleys and shadows. I visualise him putting the handcuffs on me.
