On a whim I drive from the village towards Bartizan Downs. The gates are closed and I no longer possess the means to enter. The trees are beginning to green, a shivery growth that partly hides these fortified houses with their sweeping lawns and quiet air of luxury. The gates slide apart and a woman glares suspiciously at me from her towering jeep. Cars do not loiter outside Bartizan Down without attracting attention. There’s so much to plunder and rob behind those coded gates with their ridiculous bartizans. What possessed us to buy such an ostentatious house? Why did we allow ourselves to be lured there by the purple prose of property supplements and the Judas kiss of a banker? I know the answer. Bartizan Downs was a statement. Its brash opulence proving to the world that Jake and Nadine Saunders, against all the odds, had made it.

The silver rush of the Broadmeadow River spills into the estuary as I drive back to Sea Aster. Saturday is a day for families and cars are parked under the trees. The swans are out of the water, intent on snatching bread from the fingers of excited children. They’re thuggish when they emerge onto dry land and grudgingly waddle from my path.

Music hits like a hand on my chest when I step from the car. A white van with Feral Childe Drummer painted on it is parked outside my apartment. Three other cars are parked on the grass. Cables run from the window of the breakfast room into the barn and the walls seem to vibrate with amplified energy. I peer through the open barn window, reluctant to be seen but unable to resist the temptation to see the band in action. Amplifiers are arranged on a makeshift stage and the retro Shard posters are pinned to the walls. Jake has installed the old sofa from Oakdale, as well as some bean bags for lounging. He has created a man shed and a boy’s den all rolled into one.

Hart moves with a sinuous grace that makes him unrecognisable from the shambling rhythm guitarist I used to know. Reedy plays with that same world-weary impassivity. Feral Childe, the new drummer Reedy recruited, has tumbleweed yellow hair, jeans with strategic rips and the figure of a teenage boy. I recognise the tune pulsing through the barn. One of Jake’s earlier songs. It’s different now, a slower beat with more depth, more melodic. Daryl juts his guitar into the air and Jake, his body already leaning into the music, begins to sing, his growly voice still sexy.

I was part of that circle once. Summer days in the garden, myself and Jenny sprawled in deckchairs, Rosanna carrying out jugs of lemonade and packets of Hobnobs. I clench my fists then determinedly unclench them. Throughout the afternoon I’m conscious of Shard. Not so much the pounding beat, just the reverberations of the past. When the rehearsal ends, Daryl climbs the stairs to my apartment. His eyes are shadowed. Another sleepless night, he confesses. Teething problems, flushed baby cheeks, nappies oozing an indescribable odour. He shows me a video of Jasmine spitting a blob of pureed carrot with ferocious determination at the camera.

I ask how Feral Childe is slotting into the band.

‘She’s cool,’ says Daryl. ‘Jake’s delighted with her. We all are.’

‘Feral can’t be her real name.’

‘May Smith,’ he says. ‘She changed it by deed poll on her sixteenth birthday.’ He swipes his iPhone again.

‘What’s her background?’

‘She was with Collective of Calm. Ever heard of them?’

‘No.’

‘They were based in New York and were anything but calm, from what I’ve heard. Feral came back home when they split.’

‘When was that?’

‘Early this year. Did I show you this video of Jasmine eating spaghetti? It’s a hoot.’

‘You showed it to me last week.’

‘Sorry, Nadine.’ He grimaces and slips his phone back into his pocket. ‘I used to hate baby bores like me.’

He looks relieved when I tell him it’s an addiction that will pass when Jasmine enters her teens.

Soon only the white van remains outside Sea Aster. Jake is cooking in the kitchen. Spicy, mouth-watering smells drift upwards. I hear Feral laughing, cutlery clinking, chairs being dragged to the table.

He knocks on my door shortly afterwards.

‘I can’t find a corkscrew. Do you have the one with the fancy lever?’ he asks.

‘I’ll get it for you.’

‘You can come down and join us if you like,’ he says. I don’t detect the slightest hint of enthusiasm in his voice. ‘It’s just a lamb tagine, nothing fancy.’

‘No, thanks.’ I hand him the opener. ‘I’ve things to do tonight. Enjoy your meal.’

I hear the dishes being cleared from the table and the hum of the dishwasher. Jake begins to play his guitar. Feral accompanies him on the bongos. At least they’re not in bed. I shy away from the image of her tumbleweed hair on the pillows, her boyish figure straddling him. Moving with the same pulsing force as she exercises over her drums.

They’re still making music when I ring Jenny.

‘Did I tell you Shard’s new drummer is female?’

‘Yes. You’ve mentioned it on a number of occasions. Why? Is that an issue?’

‘She’s downstairs playing the bongos. Can you hear her?’

‘Are you jealous?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Then why should I listen to her playing the bongos?’

‘I think Jake’s having a thing with her. Remember that New York text.’

‘What about it?’

‘I’m sure she sent it.’

‘Do you care?’

‘Not at all.’

‘So….’ Jenny pauses, coughs meaningfully. ‘Why are we discussing her?’

‘I’m not… it’s just… I can hear them.’

‘Doing what? Shagging?’

‘Jenny.’

‘Okay…making love by the silvery moon…is that what we’re discussing here?’

‘No. Sea Aster is off limits for that.’

‘An eminently sensible decision. Did I tell you I’m seeing someone?’

‘As in serious?’

‘Could be.’ She utters a most un-Jenny-like giggle.

‘Tell me everything,’ I demand.

And she does.

Downstairs Feral has changed from the bongos to a mouth organ. The melancholic strains writhe like an eel though the floorboards of Sea Aster. It’s after midnight before I hear Jake’s apartment door opening. I watch from the window as Feral walks with him towards her van. The outside light has switched on. I’ve a clear view as they stop beside the van and hug each other. This is not a brief hug. It’s spontaneous, filled with vigour and promise. Does it matter? Of course not. He’s free. I’m free. I need to escape from here. Watching Jake play out his new life in front of me is torture. At last they separate. Feral drives away, the wheels spraying pebbles. Jake stands in the pool of light until the rear lights disappear around the side of Sea Aster.

Chapter 21

Jake

The sense of déjà vu startled him when Karin drove into Gracehills and they passed Nadine’s old house. Karin stared straight ahead and made no reference to it. She must have spent time there, stayed overnight, sat on the garden wall, walked to and from school with Nadine through Gracehills Park. A different front door and windows, the front garden paved, it was hardly recognisable but Jenny Corcoran’s house was unchanged. The same neatly-trimmed privet hedge, the rose bushes beginning to bloom. Her parents still lived there. Last year she had arrived home for Dan Corcoran’s seventieth birthday. At his party she and Nadine sang a rap song they had composed for the occasion to thunderous applause.

Today, Joan Moylan was celebrating her birthday. A white box on the back seat of Karin’s car contained a cake with her name and birthday wishes inscribed on the icing. Jake had only the vaguest memory of meeting Joan during that summer in Monsheelagh. Her face was usually shaded by a floppy sunhat and sunglasses. Her hair was drenched that night when she entered the harbour pub where Shard were playing and Jake only caught a fleeting glimpse of her distraught expression before she disappeared into the storm.