‘That would have spoiled the point of it,’ Kate says, panting. Her eyes are bright, and laughing.

Thea is far out in the centre of the Reach where the current is strongest and the water is deep, floating on her back in the sweep of the turning tide, swimming to keep herself in one place.

‘Come out,’ she calls. ‘It’s so beautiful.’

With Fatima watching from the jetty, Kate and I swim out to where Thea floats, suspended in reflected starlight, and we turn on our backs, and I feel their hands link with mine, and float, a constellation of bodies, pale in the moonlight, limbs tangled, fingers clutching and bumping and losing hold, and then clutching again.

‘Come on, Fati,’ Thea calls. ‘It’s gorgeous out here.’

And it is. Now the shock of the cold has worn off, it’s surprisingly warm, and the moon above is almost full. When I dive beneath the surface I can see it, glinting, refracted into a thousand shards that pierce the milky, muddy waters of the Reach.

When I surface, I see that Fatima has moved closer to the side of the jetty, and is sitting right at the edge, trailing her fingers in the sea, almost wistfully.

‘It’s not the same without you,’ Kate pleads. ‘Come on … you know you want to …’

Fatima shakes her head and stands, I assume to go inside. But I’m wrong. As I watch, treading water, she takes a breath, and then she leaps – clothes and all, her scarves fluttering like a bird’s wing in the night air, and she hits the surface with a smack.

‘No way!’ Thea crows. ‘She did it!’

And we are scything our way through the water towards her, laughing and shivering with a kind of hysteria, and Fatima is laughing too, wringing out her scarves, and hugging us to keep afloat as the water drags on her clothes.

We are together again.

And for that brief instant in time, it’s all that matters.

IT IS LATE. We have dragged ourselves from the water, laughing and cursing, scraping our shins on the splintered rotten wood, and we have towelled our hair and dried our goosebumped skin. Fatima has changed out of her wet clothes, shaking her head at her own stupidity, and now we are lying sleepily on Kate’s threadbare sofa in our pyjamas and dressing gowns, a tangle of weary limbs and soft worn throws, gossiping, reminiscing, telling the old stories – do you remember …

Fatima’s hair is loose and damp, and with it tangling round her face she looks younger, so much closer to the girl she used to be. It’s hard to believe that she has a husband, and two children of her own. As I watch her, laughing at something Kate has said, the grandfather clock standing against the far wall gives two faint chimes, and she turns to look.

‘Oh blimey. I can’t believe it’s 2 a.m.! I’ve got to get some sleep.’

‘You lightweight,’ Thea says. She doesn’t look in the least tired, in fact she looks as if she could go on for hours – her eyes are sparkling as she knocks back the dregs of a glass of wine. ‘I didn’t even start my shift until midnight last night!’

‘Well, exactly. It’s all very well for you,’ Fatima says. ‘Some of us have spent years conditioning ourselves to the rigid timetable of a nine-to-five job and a couple of pre-schoolers. It’s hard to snap out of it. Look, Isa’s yawning too!’

They all turn to look at me, and I try, unsuccessfully, to stifle the yawn that’s already halfway in motion, and then shrug and smile.

‘Sorry, what can I say? I lost my stamina along with my waist. But Fatima’s right … Freya will be awake at seven. I have to get a few hours in before then.’

‘Come on,’ Fatima says, standing up and stretching. ‘Bed.’

‘Wait,’ Kate says, her voice low, and I realise that out of all of us, she has been the quietest for this last part of the night. Fatima, Thea and I, we have all been telling our favourite stories, anecdotes at the expense of each other, dredged-up memories … but Kate has kept silent, guarding her thoughts. Now, her voice is a surprise, and we all turn to look. She is curled in the armchair, her hair loose and shadowing her face, and there is something in her expression that makes us all stop. My stomach flutters.

‘What?’ Fatima says, and there is uneasiness in her voice. She sits again, but on the edge of the sofa this time, her fingers twining around the edge of the scarf she has draped to dry on the fireguard around the stove. ‘What is it?’

‘I …’ Kate says, and then she stops. She drops her eyes. ‘Oh God,’ she says, almost to herself. ‘I didn’t know it would be this difficult.’

And suddenly I know what she is about to say, and I am not sure that I want to hear it.

‘Spit it out,’ Thea says, her voice hard. ‘Say it, Kate. We’ve skirted round it long enough, it’s time to tell us why.’

Why what? Kate could retort. But she doesn’t need to. We all know what Thea means. Why are we here. What did that text mean, those three little words: I need you.

Kate draws a breath, and she looks up, her face shadowed in the lamplight.

But to my surprise, she doesn’t speak. Instead she gets up, and goes to the pile of newspapers in the scuttle by the stove, left there for lighting the logs. There is one on the top, the Salten Observer, and she holds it out, wordless, her face showing all the fear she has been hiding this long, drunken evening.

It is dated yesterday, and the headline on the front page is very simple.

HUMAN BONE FOUND IN REACH.

Rule Two

Stick to Your Story

‘SHIT.’ THE VOICE that breaks the silence is Fatima’s, surprising me with her vehemence. ‘Shit.’

Kate lets the paper fall and I snatch it up, my eyes darting across the page. Police have been called to identify remains found on the north bank of the Reach at Salten…

My hand is shaking so hard that I can hardly read, and disjointed phrases jumble together as I scan the page. Police spokesperson confirmed … human skeletal remains … unnamed witness … poor state of preservation … forensic examination … locals shocked … area closed to the public …

‘Have they …’ Thea falters, uncharacteristically, and starts again. ‘Do they know …’

She stops.

‘Do they know who it is?’ I finish for her, my voice hard and brittle, looking at Kate who sits with her head bowed beneath the weight of our questions. The paper in my hand trembles, making a sound like leaves falling. ‘The body?’

Kate shakes her head, but she doesn’t need to say the words I know we are all thinking: Not yet …

‘It’s just a bone. It might be completely unconnected, right?’ Thea says, but then her face twists. ‘Fuck, who am I kidding? Shit!’ She slams her fist, the one holding the glass, down onto the table and the glass breaks, shards skittering everywhere.

‘Oh, Thee,’ Kate says, her voice very low.

‘Stop being a bloody drama queen, Thee,’ Fatima says angrily. She goes to the sink to get a cloth and a brush. ‘Did you cut yourself?’ she throws back over her shoulder.

Thea shakes her head, her face white, but she lets Fatima examine her hand, wiping away the dregs of wine with a tea towel. As Fatima pushes back Thea’s sleeve I see what the moonlight outside hid – the trace of white scars on her inner arm, long-healed but still visible, and I can’t stop myself from flinching and looking away, remembering when those cuts were fresh and raw.

‘You idiot,’ Fatima says, but her touch, as she brushes the shards of glass from Thea’s palm, is gentle, and there is a tremor in her voice.

‘I can’t do this,’ Thea says, shaking her head, and I realise for the first time how drunk she is, just holding it together well. ‘Not again, not now. Even rumours – casinos are fucking strict, do you guys realise that? And if the police get involved …’ There is a crack in her voice, the sound of a sob trying to rise to the surface. ‘Shit, I could lose my gaming licence. I might never work again.’

‘Look, we’re all in the same boat,’ Fatima says. ‘You think people want a GP with questions like that hanging over their head? Or a lawyer?’ She jerks her head at me. ‘Isa and I have got just as much to lose as you.’