When I wake, my head aches. I think of all that champagne – then the vodka. I check the alarm clock: 7 a.m. Charlie’s fast asleep, flat on his back. I heard him come in last night, take his clothes off. I waited for the stumbling, the swearing, but he seemed surprisingly in control of his faculties.

‘Han,’ he whispered to me, as he got into bed. ‘I left the drinking game. I only did the one shot.’ That made me feel a bit less hostile towards him. Then I wondered where else he’d been, for all that time. With whom. I remembered his flirting with Jules. I remembered how Johnno had asked if they’d slept together – and how they never answered.

So I didn’t reply. I pretended to be asleep.

But I’ve woken up feeling turned on. I had some pretty crazy dreams. I think the vodka was partly responsible. But also the memory of Will’s eyes on me at the beginning of the evening. Then talking in the cave with Olivia at the end: sitting so close in the dark with the water lapping at our feet and only the candle for light, passing the bottle between us.

Secret, somehow sensual. I found myself hanging on her every word, the images she painted for me vivid in the darkness. As though it was me up against the wall, my skirt pushed up over my hips, someone’s mouth upon me. The guy might have been a dickhead but the sex sounded pretty hot. And it made me remember the slightly dangerous thrill of sleeping with someone unknown, where you’re not anticipating their every move.

I turn to Charlie. Perhaps now is the time to break our sex drought, regain that lost intimacy. I sneak a hand beneath the covers, grazing the springy hair that covers his chest, moving my hand lower—

Charlie makes a sleepy, surprised noise. And then, his voice claggy with sleep: ‘Not now, Han. Too tired.’

I pull my hand away, stung. ‘Not now’: like I’m an irritation. Tired because he stayed up late last night doing God knows what, when on the boat over here he spoke of this as a weekend for us. When he knows how raw I feel at the moment. I have a sudden frightening urge to pick up the hardback on the nightstand and hit him over the head with it. It’s alarming, the rush of anger. It feels like I might have been harbouring it for a while.

Then a sneaking thought. I allow myself to wonder what it must be like for Jules, to wake up next to Will. I heard them, last night – everyone in the Folly must have. I think again of the strength of Will’s arms as he lifted me out of the boat yesterday. I think, too, of how I caught him looking at me last night with that strange, questioning look. The sense of power, feeling his eyes on me.

Charlie murmurs in his sleep and I catch a waft of sour morning breath. I can’t imagine Will having bad breath. Suddenly, I feel it’s important to remove myself from this bedroom, from these thoughts.

There’s no sound of movement inside the Folly, so I think I’m the first one up.

There must be quite a breeze today, as I can hear it whistling about the old stones of the place as I creep down the stairs, and every so often the windowpanes rattle in their frames as though someone’s just smacked a palm against them. I wonder if we had the best of the weather yesterday. Jules won’t like that. I tiptoe into the kitchen.

Aoife’s standing there in a crisp white shirt and slacks, a clipboard in her hand, looking as if she’s been up for hours. ‘Morning,’ she says – and I sense she is scrutinising my face. ‘How are you today?’ I get the impression Aoife doesn’t miss a lot, with those bright, assessing eyes of hers. She’s quietly rather beautiful. I sense that she makes an effort to underplay it but it shines through. Beautifully shaped dark eyebrows, grey-green eyes. I’d kill for that sort of natural, Audrey Hepburn-esque elegance, those cheekbones.

‘I’m good,’ I say. ‘Sorry. Didn’t realise anyone else was up.’

‘We started at the crack of dawn,’ she says. ‘With the big day today.’

I’d practically forgotten about the actual wedding. I wonder how Jules is feeling this morning. Nervous? I can’t imagine her being nervous about anything.

‘Of course. I was going to go for a walk. Bit of a sore head.’

‘Well,’ she says, with a smile. ‘Safest to walk to the crest of the island, following the path past the chapel, leaving the marquee on the other side. That should keep you out of the bog. And take some wellies from by the door – you need to be careful to stick to the drier parts, or you’ll find yourself in the turf. There’s some signal up there too, if you need to make a phone call.’

A phone call. Oh God – the kids! With a swoop of guilt, I realise they have totally slipped my mind. My own children. I’m shocked by how much this place has already made me forget myself.

I head outside and find the path, or what remains of it. It’s not quite as easy as Aoife made out: you can just about see where it must have been trodden into existence, where the grass hasn’t grown quite as well as elsewhere. As I walk the clouds scurry overhead, whirling out towards the open sea. It’s definitely breezier today, and more overcast, though every so often the sun bursts dazzlingly through the cloud. The huge marquee, on the left of me, rustles in the wind as I pass it. I could sneak inside and have a look. But I am drawn towards the graveyard, instead, to the right of me beyond the chapel. Maybe this is a reflection of my state of mind at this time of year, the morbid mood that descends on me every June.

Wandering among the markers I see several very distinctive Celtic crosses, but I can also make out faint images of anchors, flowers. Most of the stones are so ancient that you can hardly read the writing on them any more. Even if you could, it’s not in English: Gaelic, I suppose. Some are broken or worn down until they have no real shape at all. Without really thinking what I am doing I touch a hand to the one nearest to me and feel where the rough stone has been smoothed by wind and water over the decades. There are a few that look a bit newer, perhaps from shortly before the islanders left for good. But most are pretty overgrown with weeds and mosses, as though they haven’t been tended for a while.

Then I come across one that stands out because there’s nothing growing over it. In fact it’s in good nick: a little jam jar of wildflowers in front of it. From the dates – I do some quick maths – it must have been a child, a young girl: Darcey Malone, the stone reads, Lost to the sea. I look towards the sea. Many have drowned in making the crossing, Mattie told us. He didn’t actually tell us when they drowned, I realise. I had assumed that was hundreds of years ago. But maybe it was more recent. To think: this was someone’s child.

I bend down and touch the stone. There’s an ache at the back of my throat.

‘Hannah!’ I turn towards the Folly. Aoife stands there, looking at me. ‘It’s not that way,’ she says, then points to where the path continues at an angle away from the chapel. ‘Over there!’

‘Thanks!’ I call to her. ‘Sorry!’ I feel as though I have been caught trespassing.

As I get further away from the Folly any sign of the path seems to disappear completely. Patches of earth that look safe and grassy give way beneath my feet, collapsing into a black ooze. Cold bogwater has already seeped into my right welly and my foot squelches inside its soaked sock. The thought of the bodies somewhere beneath me makes me shiver. I wonder if anyone will know tonight how close they’re dancing to a burial pit.

I hold up my phone. Full signal, as Aoife promised. I ring home. I can make out the tone at the other end over the wind, then my mum’s voice saying: ‘Hello?’

‘It’s not too early is it?’ I ask.

‘Goodness no, love. We’ve been up for … well, it feels like hours.’ When she passes me to Ben I can hardly make out what he’s saying,

his voice is so high and reedy.

‘What was that, darling?’ I press the phone to my ear.

‘I said hello, Mum.’ At the sound of his voice I feel it deep down inside, the powerful tug of my bond to him. When I look for something to compare my love for the kids with it’s actually not my love for Charlie. It’s animal, powerful, blood-thick. The love of kin. The closest thing I can find to it is my love for Alice, my sister.

‘Where are you?’ Ben asks. ‘It sounds like the sea. Are there boats?’ He’s obsessed with boats.

‘Yes, we came over on one.’ ‘A big one?’

‘Big-ish.’

‘Lottie was really sick yesterday, Mum.’ ‘What’s wrong with her?’ I ask, quickly.

The thing that most worries me is the thought of anything happening to my loved ones. When I was little and woke in the night I’d sometimes creep over to my sister Alice’s bed to check that she was definitely breathing, because the worst thing I could imagine was her being taken from me. ‘I’m OK, Han,’ she’d whisper, a smile in her voice. ‘But you can get in if you want to.’ And I’d lie there, pressed against her back, feeling the reassuring movement of her ribs as she breathed.

Mum comes on to the line. ‘Nothing to worry about, Han. She overdid herself yesterday afternoon. Your dad – the dolt – left her on her own with the Victoria sponge while I was at the shops. She’s fine now, love, she’s watching CBeebies on the sofa, ready for her breakfast. Now,’ she says to me, ‘go have fun at your glamorous weekend.’

I don’t feel very glamorous right now, I think, with my soggy sock and the breeze stinging tears from my eyes. ‘All right, Mum,’ I say, ‘I’ll try and call tomorrow, on our way home. They’re not driving you too crazy?’

‘No,’ Mum says. ‘To be honest—’ The little catch in her voice is unmistakable.

‘What?’

‘Well, it’s a nice distraction. Positive. Looking after the next generation.’ She stops, and I hear her take a deep breath. ‘You know … it’s this time of year.’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I get it, Mum. I feel it too.’ ‘Bye, darling. You take care of yourself.’

As I ring off it hits me. Is that who Olivia reminds me of? Alice? It’s all there: the thinness, the fragility, the deer-in-headlights look. I remember when I first saw my sister after she came home from university for the summer holidays. She had lost about a third of her body weight. She looked like someone with a terrible disease – like something was eating her from the inside out. And the worst part was that she didn’t think she could talk to anyone about what had happened to her. Not even me.

I start walking. And then I stop, look about me. I’m not sure I’m going the right way but it’s not obvious which way is right. I can’t see the Folly or even the marquee from here, hidden as they are by the rise of the ground. I’d assumed it would be easier going on my return, because I’d know the route. But now I feel disoriented – my thoughts have been somewhere else completely. I must have taken a different way; it seems even boggier here. I’m having to hop between drier tussocks of grass to avoid soft, wet black patches of peat. I plough on. Then I get a bit stuck and chance a big leap. But I’ve misjudged it: my footing slips and my left welly lands not on the grassy hillock but on the soft surface of the peat.

I sink – and I keep sinking. It happens so fast. The ground opens up and swallows my foot. I lose my balance, staggering backwards, and my other foot goes in with a horrible slurp of suction, quick as the black

throat of that cormorant swallowing the fish. Within moments, the peat seems to be over the top of my boots and I’m sinking further. For the first few seconds I’m stupid with surprise, frozen. Then I realise I have to act, to rescue myself. I reach out for the dry patch of land in front of me, and grip hold of two hunks of grass.

I heave. Nothing happens. I seem to be stuck fast. How embarrassing this is going to be, I think, when I get back to the Folly absolutely filthy and have to explain what happened. Then I realise that I’m still sinking. The black earth is inching over my knees, up my lower thighs. Little by little it is drinking me in.

Suddenly I don’t care about embarrassment any longer. I’m genuinely terrified. ‘Help!’ I shout. But my words are swallowed by the wind.

There’s no way my voice is going to carry a few yards, let alone all the way to the Folly. Nevertheless, I try again. I scream it: ‘Help me!’

I think of the bodies in the bog. I imagine skeletal hands reaching up towards me from deep beneath the earth, ready to drag me down. And I begin to scrabble at the bank, using all my strength to haul myself upwards, snorting and growling with the effort like an animal. It feels like nothing’s happening but I grit my teeth and try even harder.

And then I am aware of the distinct feeling of being watched. A prickle down the spine.

‘You want a hand there?’

I start. I can’t quite twist myself round to see who has spoken. Slowly they move around to stand in front of me. It’s two of the ushers: Duncan and Pete.

‘We were having a little explore,’ Duncan says. ‘You know, get the lay of the land.’

‘Didn’t think we’d have the pleasure of rescuing a damsel in distress,’ Pete says.

Their expressions are almost completely neutral. But there’s a twitch at the corner of Duncan’s mouth and I get the feeling they were laughing at me. That they might have been observing me for a while as I struggled. I don’t want to rely on their help. But I’m also not really in any position to be picky.

They each take one of my hands. With them pulling, I finally manage to yank one foot from its hold. I lose the boot as I pull my foot from the last of the bog and the earth closes over it as quickly as it had opened. I pull my other foot out and scrabble on to the bank, safe. For a moment I’m sprawled upon the ground, trembling with exhaustion and adrenaline, unable to find the energy to rise to my feet. I can’t quite

believe what just happened. Then I remember the two men looking down at me, each holding one of my hands. I scramble to my feet, thanking them, dropping their hands as quickly as seems polite – the clasp of our fingers suddenly feels oddly intimate. Now that the adrenaline is receding I’m becoming aware of how I must have looked to them as they pulled me out: my top gaping to expose my grey old bra, cheeks flushed and sweaty. I’m also aware of how isolated we are, here. Two of them, one of me.

‘Thanks, guys,’ I say, hating the wobble in my voice. ‘I think I’m going to head back to the Folly now.’

‘Yes,’ Duncan drawls. ‘Got to wash all that filth off for later.’ And I can’t work out if I’m reading too much into it or whether there really is something suggestive in the way he says it.

I start back in the direction of the Folly. I’m moving as fast as I can go in my socked feet, while being careful to pick only the safest crossings. I suddenly want very much to get back inside, and yes, back to Charlie. To put as much space as possible between myself and the bog. And, to be honest, my rescuers.