‘It’s nothing like that, Mum,’ she insists. Mark Brewer is simply an inspirational director who understands the interior of her soul and how she must use it for dramatic effect.

They’re definitely in a relationship.

‘Dad sounds weird when he rings,’ she says.

‘Weird as in?’ I ask.

‘Like he’s trying to walk through quicksand.’

‘I can assure you that your father is on dry land and in no danger of sinking.’ I resist the urge to add, more’s the pity.

Brian rings to tell me that Shard have finally got their act together and have set a date for their comeback gig. He’s curious but reluctant to probe too deeply as to why I’m staring at whales instead of selling double page spreads for Lustrous. The twins continue to run around tracks and concentrate on improving their personal best. They were born self-contained and focused. No reason for them to change simply because their mother has run away from home and their father is snatching back his dream. I’ll visit them in California when my Alaskan adventure is over.

This evening we’ve anchored in a small, sheltered slip in Funter Bay. I serve dinner on deck. Daveth eats with relish, king crab legs and halibut but Stuart is unable to finish his meal. His complexion has a waxy sheen that worries me. I’ve been uneasy about his health since the trip started. Initially, I put his bouts of nausea down to seasickness. I, too, hung over the side of Eyebright on a few occasions before I found my sea legs. Any questions I ask about his health are batted away.

We’re finishing our meal when the water surges off shore and a pod of whales surface. I grab my binoculars. Stuart steadies his camera. We watch their tails fanning the air before they sink again into the heaving sea. This sight invigorates him, as if he draws strength from the sheer bulk of these enormous mammals. His colour is better but he staggers when he stands to go to his cabin. He steadies himself and makes his way downstairs. I allow him time to undress then tap on his door. He’s sitting up in bed, examining the photos in his viewfinder.

‘How are you feeling?’ I sit on the edge of his bunk and take his hand in mine. Without his bulky jumpers he looks so much thinner.

‘I’m good,’ he replies.

‘Are you ill, Stuart?’

‘Just a bit tired. Don’t fuss, Nadine. I wouldn’t have undertaken this trip if I couldn’t cope with it.’ He checks the viewfinder again and shows me the photographs he’s taken since the trip started. I understand that it’s his way of avoiding any further discussion about his health. I respect his decision and hold back on the anxious questions.

I make my way to the deck where Daveth is relaxing with a drink.

‘Come and sit for a while.’ He hands me a bottle of beer. ‘I could do with some company.’

A boat pulls into a nearby slip. Figures stand motionless on deck, sculpted against the serried backdrop of pines. Like me, Daveth is worried that Stuart is finding the trip too arduous. We’ve two more weeks at sea before we move into the lodge he’s rented.

‘Stuart says you’ve been doing these tours since you were a teenager,’ I raise the bottle and take a tentative sip. The beer is gassy but not unpleasant.

‘On and off,’ he says. ‘I worked initially for one of the ship builders. I built Eyebright after I married and have been organising these tours ever since.’

‘Does your wife ever come with you?’

‘Not anymore.’ He remains silent for a while. I wait until he’s ready to speak. Time seems slower here and silence is an easy companion. ‘Olga died three years ago,’ he eventually says.

‘I’m so sorry, Daveth. I’d no idea.’

‘Why should you?’ He drains the bottle and rubs his hand across his mouth. ‘I usually keep my personal and business life separate.’

‘Thank you for telling me.’ It’s almost midnight and the sky is still bright. Boats clang and clatter together, like they’re conversing port to starboard. I’ve seen her photograph in the galley and had assumed she was waiting at home for his return. A sprinkling of freckles, tanned skin, windblown brown hair, Olga Carew must have loved the outdoors.

‘We knew our time together was limited,’ he adds. That kind of knowledge concentrates the mind. We made every moment count.’

‘You must have wonderful memories of her.’

The wind is stronger now and adds an unearthly keen as it blows through the riggings. I think about banshees, how they are supposed to haunt certain families at the time of death. Anything seems possible in this raddled, icy terrain. I wonder if he has children. I suspect not or I would have seen their photos somewhere on the boat.

‘The blood disease she had was hereditary.’ He picks up my thoughts. ‘She didn’t want to risk passing it on to another generation so we never had children.’ He uncaps another beer and passes it me, shrugs aside the enormity of what he’s revealed. ‘Everyone has a story. What’s yours?’

‘One marriage on the rocks and four grown-up children.’ It’s possible, it seems, to condense my life story into a single sentence.

‘You must have married young.’

‘Seventeen.’

‘That is young. What made you decide to end it?’

‘What makes you think it was my decision?’ I ask.

‘I can’t imagine it was the other way around.’ He raises his bottle in a salute to me and waits in the stillness that settles between us. I feel mildly flattered by this assumption. But who did or did not end our marriage is no longer important. What matters is what followed. Lies of intent. Lies of omission.

Daveth’s hands are blunt and strong. I imagine them on my body, trailing, stroking, probing, the glide of his lips between my breasts. This longing is sudden, shocking in its intensity, and gone just as fast.

I lean over the rail of Eyebright with its bright, fluttering bunting. There should be room here to lance my memories. To fling the past into the frozen depths so that it can never again reflect back at me.

Time passes. I feel the light touch of Daveth’s hand on my back.

‘It usually happens on a trip like this,’ he says. ‘Whatever we’re running from catches up with us sooner or later.’

‘You’re right.’ My eyes feel heavy, the skin puffed and red. I think of his wife, that vital force stubbed out so young. How did he cope with her death? Did he run towards the first woman who opened her arms to him, as my father did? I doubt it. He survives on the good memories whereas I’ve focused on the bad ones, used them as my defining touchstone.

‘I’d better turn in,’ I say. ‘We’ve a long trip ahead of us tomorrow.’

‘See you in the morning then.’ He gathers the empty bottles into a refuse bag and allows the starless night to close around us. Float planes glide low over the harbour. The sky is too bright to view the northern lights. I’ll have to wait until later if I want to see them. Will I still be here? The vastness of the scenery bears down on me. The rocky permanence seems eternal but time has a chisel that never stops chipping. I’ve no idea how my life is going to change, only that it must. It always does.

I can’t sleep. There was a moment with Daveth when everything could have changed. He knows the preciousness of moments. He could have been my bridge over loneliness. Why did I let it go? My breath deepens as my hand slides downwards and comforts me in this narrow bunk. Relief is swift, sharp, unsatisfying. And Karin Moylan remains a mind flash… flash… flash… framed within glass. A tableau I can’t banish. Jake’s shirt draped like a wanton veil over her arms. The bloom of sex on her skin.

Chapter 31

Jake

The Bare Pit was a popular place to hear new bands. Reedy and Feral had attracted a sizable number of fans, and there were fans from the young Shard days. Couples in their late thirties, early forties, babysitters organised for the night. The support act was concluding, the crowd swelling. Soon Shard would be on stage. Jake rocked on his toes, wiped sweat from his forehead. How could he have forgotten the fear before each performance? He read texts from Ali and the twins, wishing him luck, and spoke briefly to Brian, who had arrived with Peter Brennan, his one-time next door neighbour from Oakdale Terrace.