‘Yeah.’ Thorne had read about just how treacherous the crossing could be. ‘So, what’s it going to be like later, then? The weather.’

Morgan turned, grinning. ‘Changeable.’

Thorne was stepping away when he heard Morgan say something else. He turned back. ‘Sorry?’

‘I said, it’ll be nice over on the island though.’

‘Really?’

‘They reckon it’s got its own microclimate. I’ve known days when it’s snowing on the mainland and I’ve been walking around over there without a jacket on. Bloody strange, sometimes.’

‘Not the strangest thing I’ve heard,’ Thorne said.

‘Yeah, well a lot of that’s nonsense. King Arthur is not buried over there, for a kick-off.’

‘Plenty are though.’ Thorne was not thinking about Simon Milner. ‘What is it, twenty thousand saints supposed to be buried there?’

‘I don’t know about that,’ Morgan said. ‘Certainly that’s what all the pilgrims thought, what plenty of them still think, the number of them that come every year. Used to say that four trips to the island was the same as one visit to Rome.’ He shook his head. ‘God knows. I just think it’s a special place, that’s all. I don’t know what you’re up to over there and I’m not sure I want to, but you need to remember that.’

‘Are you going to wait for us?’ Thorne asked.

‘Well, I wouldn’t normally, but me and my dad need to service the lighthouse anyway, so we might as well hang around and take you back. I want to be away before dark, mind.’

‘You and me both,’ Thorne said.

‘Gives you about seven hours, I reckon.’

‘Your job to do the lighthouse, then?’

‘Yeah, when I’m not being a boatman and when we’re not being lobster fishermen. Need to do all sorts if you want to make an honest living these days.’ He turned, flashed a smile at Thorne, showing off a chipped front tooth. ‘Well, I suppose the likes of you are doing all right. Now that there’s a lot more people trying to make a living dishonestly.’

They fell into a silence, the boat smashing through waves which were suddenly a lot higher as they drew close to the tip of the peninsula. Thorne turned to look at Holland and saw that he was deep in conversation with Wendy Markham. He had no idea if Holland had managed to get hold of any seasickness pills, but he certainly looked all right.

It was Thorne who was starting to feel his guts churning, the sweat prickling on his neck and forehead.

He hadn’t said anything the day before, when Holland had been talking about trying to get tablets; hoping he would get away without showing himself up on what was, after all, only a short crossing. But he was already feeling as though he might not make it.

He had never been good on the water. He remembered holidays to Devon when he was a kid and nightmarish outings with his dad, on small boats, fishing for mackerel. He had always gone, not wanting to miss out on the time with his father, but if by some miracle he did manage to get through the trip without throwing up, the smell of the fish later on when his dad was gutting their catch would usually do the trick.

Now, he took deep breaths, kept his eyes fixed on the horizon through the dirty window of Morgan’s cabin.

‘You all right?’

Thorne nodded, hoped it wasn’t going to be too much longer. ‘I meant to say, I met your cousin last night. Eddie, is it? He was propping up the bar in the Black Horse.’

Morgan said nothing for ten, fifteen seconds. Then he muttered, ‘Arsehole.’

A minute or two later, they were rounding the peninsula and Thorne got his first look at their destination.

‘There you go,’ Morgan said. ‘Bardsey Island. Well… that’s what the English call it.’

‘What do you call it?’

‘Ynnis Enlli in Welsh. Island of Tides. Bloody tricky ones at that…’

Approaching as they were – from behind the mountain that dominated one side of the island – the first view was of cliffs and the snowflake specks of wheeling seabirds against the black crags. The island was shaped like a giant, humpbacked tadpole; no more than a mile from end to end and about half as wide. Thorne looked up at the cliffs, the hundred-foot drop on to the rocks, but having studied a map, he knew that where they would be coming ashore the landscape would be very different.

Morgan turned, saw Thorne looking. ‘Special, like I said…’

Thorne became aware of shouting, a commotion on the deck behind him, and he turned to see that Nicklin was trying in vain to stand up. Fletcher had a hand firmly on his shoulder in an effort to stop him and while Batchelor just stared out at the cliffs, Jenks was leaning across him to help. Holland was already on his feet while Howell and her team had moved back, as far away as they could get from the struggle.

‘What’s going on?’ Morgan shouted.

Nicklin tried again and was quickly pushed back down. Thorne saw something very dark flash across Nicklin’s face, but when he turned to look up at Thorne, there was no sign of it.

‘I just want to get a better look at it,’ he said.

‘Don’t want you hurting yourself, do we?’

‘It’s been a long time…’

Thorne considered for a few seconds, then gave Fletcher the nod. The prison officer moved his hand from Nicklin’s shoulder, allowing him to get slowly and unsteadily to his feet. Jenks kept hold of one arm to prevent him falling.

‘Happy memories?’ Thorne asked.

‘Not especially.’ Nicklin stared past him towards the island, squinting into the spray. ‘Just that last time I saw it, I was somebody else.’

EIGHTEEN

Tides House

The engines were switched off and, as the boat was guided gently towards the dock, they watched what looked very like a welcoming committee walking down a steep track to meet them. Once ashore, the boatman waited at the foot of the ladder to help each of his passengers down, taking their heavy rucksacks from them, though all but a couple of them waved aside the offer of a steadying hand. Just before he took his turn to jump down into the shallow water, Simon looked back at the boy he assumed to be the son of Mr Morgan, the boatman. The boy, who was probably eleven or twelve, had been staring at Simon and some of the others all the way across. Once or twice, he had ventured shyly out of the cabin and moved to within a few feet of them on the deck, only to be called gruffly back or given a job to do or just firmly warned to keep away.

‘Huw. What have I told you…?’

Simon waved, then jumped from the ladder.

He didn’t see the boy wave back.

One of the three staff members who had travelled with them – two men and a woman – clapped their hands together, shouted for silence and began gathering the boys into a group. When the man and woman who had walked down to meet the boat reached them, there were handshakes all round. The woman who appeared to be in charge pulled a knitted shawl tight around her shoulders and said she hoped the crossing had been a smooth one. She looked at the boys and said, ‘We’ve got something back at the house if anyone has a dodgy tummy.’

A boy next to Simon said, ‘Tummy? For fuck’s sake…’

The five staff members and eight boys began walking up the hill towards the line of buildings spread out at the foot of the mountain. Simon had no idea if there were only going to be eight of them. Perhaps there were more to come, or maybe others had arrived already.

For some reason, there were no members of staff at the back of the group as the caterpillar made slow and untidy progress uphill, so things fell apart fairly rapidly. The group stretched out and broke up until some of the boys began drifting from the path. One by one, a few dropped their rucksacks and went tearing down across the fields towards the sea; yelling and laughing like lunatics as they ran and pushed one another, sending sheep scattering in all directions. A staff member shouted, hands cupped around his mouth, then went running after them. Simon heard the woman say something about the new arrivals needing to let off steam. She stood and watched them, but she was seemingly more bothered about the wind messing her hair up, and after a minute she said that the boys were too hungry to go very far. That there wasn’t very far to go, even if they wanted to. The man she was talking to looked unconvinced, but sure enough, all those who had broken ranks had fallen back in or been rounded up by the time they reached the farm.