They were still shouting. Karin must also be able to hear but she stayed in her room. A door banged. Max was leaving. Joan shrieked something after him. I huddled under the duvet. Rain struck the walls in flurries and the wind whistled against the thatch. I thought about the three little pigs and the house of straw but the roof held strong. Only the furious rattle of the window frames disturbed the silence that settled over Cowrie Cottage. I knew we would not be going to the Shard gig tonight. I couldn’t wait for morning, to be on the road and in the warm circle of my mother’s arms.

An hour passed. I knocked on Karin’s door. She refused to answer. I knocked harder, called her name. When she didn’t come out I went into the parlour where Joan was curled in an armchair, a rug pulled over her shoulders. Broken glass covered the floor beside the back wall. Her face was red and blotchy, her eyes slitted from crying. The bottle of vodka on a small table beside her was half empty. She was drinking it neat. The room stank of alcohol. She was incoherent when I persuaded her to go to bed. I helped her into their bedroom. She was so light I could have carried her. I thought of deadwood, ready to snap. The bed was unmade, the indent of two heads still visible on the pillows, the sheets tangled. She tripped over Max’s mountain boots – the ones he’d worn when we did our trek through Monsheelagh Forest – and sprawled forward onto the bed.

I pulled the duvet over her and listened, really listened, to the gale outside. It reminded me of an orchestra, shrill musicians without a composer to keep them in tune. Joan’s hair covered her face. Her eyes, when I pulled the fringed aside, were closed. I wasn’t sure if she was asleep or unconscious.

I waited for Max to return. Another hour passed. Was it the front door he’d slammed behind him? If so, he’d probably gone to the village. If it was the back door and he was on the cliff he should be wearing his boots. I banged again on Karin’s door. Still no answer. I turned the handle. The door was locked.

I shook Joan awake. ‘Where’s Max?’ I kept shouting into her face. ‘Where has he gone?’

‘Gone to hell… to hell,’ she muttered. Her head lolled to one side, her clavicle a taut outline against her throat.

I checked the kitchen press where the torches were kept for walking home at night from Barney’s pub. One was missing. I took the red one I always used and zipped up my anorak. I walked along the top path. I was drenched in minutes, my feet sodden from the long grass. The steps were slick with rain. I held tightly to the railings as I descended and was almost swept off my feet when I shone the torch on the dark ocean below. The tide was full in, higher than I’d ever seen it. Savage white horses dashing against the cliff. I called Max’s name repeatedly but the wind buffeted my voice and pitched it into the waves. Spume moistened the air, salted my lips as I clung to the railing and made my way back to the path.

I was frantic when I reached the gate leading to the cottage. Could Max have taken the steep path to the cove? My trainers skidded on the mud when I tried to find the trail. I sat down heavily, grasping heather and bracken to stop my fall. Lightening flailed like a whip in the pitch black sky. I huddled into my knees as the thunder roared. He would never have taken this path. Nor would he have used the steps. He must be in the village, drying off in Barney’s pub.

I crawled back to safety and returned to the cottage. Somehow, Joan had pulled herself together. She’d showered and wrapped her hair in a towel, smeared on lipstick and made black coffee.

‘I can’t find Max.’ I was sobbing, terrified by fears I was unable to utter aloud.

‘He’ll be back.’ Her voice was still slurred but I could make out what she was saying. ‘He always comes back… like a rolling stone he’ll roll back to me. A bad… bad rolling stone… he’ll roll back to me and lay all his moss at my feet.’ She rocked back in the chair, a mug of coffee between her hands, and laughed. Her amusement only added to the wretchedness of her sad, clown face.

‘He’s been gone nearly two hours.’ I tried to make her understand. ‘What if he’s on the cliff?’

‘He can walk it blindfold,’ she said but she slopped coffee on the table when she put the mug down.

Water dripped from my anorak and pooled at my feet. I sat on the edge of the bed and peeled off my wet jeans. When I’d changed into track suit bottoms I pressed my ear against the wall. The silence from Karin’s room was absolute.

‘Your father is missing,’ I shouted. ‘I’m afraid he’s on the cliff.’

Still no answer. There was only one explanation. She must have gone out earlier. Maybe she was with Max. They could be in the village listening to Shard, relieved that they had escaped Joan’s drunken tantrum. Was she showing him my letters, laughing at me for my foolishness?

‘The phone’s dead.’ Joan stood on the threshold of my room, the towel wrapped like a turban around her head. ‘I’m going to the village to ring the guards.’

‘Maybe that’s where he is,’ I said. ‘Karin’s not in her room. She must have gone with him.’

She was scared at last and sobering fast as she walked unsteadily towards the front door. I ran after her. The wind gusted through the hall and slammed the door from her hand. She swayed against the door jamb then straightened and stumbled into the night. The towel loosened from its turban and flapped like the wings of a demented bird as it was blown away.

Her driving was erratic. I covered my eyes as she swerved wildly around corners but, thankfully, there was no traffic coming towards us. The waves were dashing so hard against the harbour wall it was impossible to park near it. She found a spot in the next road and held onto my arm as we ran towards the pub. My first time to hear Shard. Loud, raucous rock, so very different to the usual traditional music played in Barneys. The pub was packed. We pushed our way through the crowd surrounding the bar and into the back where Shard were crowded onto a small stage. The walls vibrated with the energy of their music. Karin was on the stage beside Jake, her hands raised about her head as she slapped a tambourine. She had tied her hair in a ponytail and her resemblance to Max was clear in her sharp profile and the slant of her determined chin. Jake hugged her when the music stopped.

‘Let’s hear it for Karin,’ he roared into the microphone and the crowd roared back. I looked around. Max was not there. Otherwise, he would have been in front of the stage cheering her on. My knees gave way. I grabbed the back of a chair and steadied myself. Joan’s lips were puckered, as if frozen on words she was afraid to speak.

She pulled my arm, drawing me down to her level. ‘I have to phone the guards,’ she shouted in my ear. ‘It’s too noisy here. I’ll ring them from the harbour phone. Get Karin down. We’ve got to get back to the cottage.’

The exultant glow in Karin’s eyes darkened when she saw me. She blinked, as if the effort of looking at me required too much effort. She ignored me when I gestured at her to come down. The band was about to start a new number. I stepped onto the stage and grabbed her arm. Jake had signed his name on her skin. She jerked away from me and smacked the tambourine against my face. The crowd howled, their laughter thick with anticipation.

‘Fight… fight,’ someone roared and the cry was taken up.

Jake came between us. My lip was bleeding where one of the metal zils had cut the skin. I wiped the blood with the back of my hand, hardly aware of what I was doing.

‘Whatever’s going on, take it elsewhere,’ Jake shouted. ‘This is our night. Don’t fuck it up.’

‘Where’s your father?’ I yelled at Karin when she followed me from the stage. ‘I thought he was here with you. Your mother’s ringing the guards.’