I jog back down the waterfront until I reach the narrow set of concrete stairs that lead uphill to my street. I'm out of breath by the time I reach the top, and I pause to glance back towards the beach and see if I can still catch sight of the girl, but it's too far off. I carry on down to my house, fish my keys from my pocket and let myself in as quietly as possible.
I know the layout of the rooms well enough to move by feel alone. First, I hang my school bag on the post at the bottom of the stairs, then I edge open the door to the living room and peer inside. The pale light of the TV washes over the room, over the sleeping form of my father on the sofa. There's a faint but distinct smell of alcohol in the room.
I shut the door. If my father's sleeping downstairs that must mean my mother's up in the bedroom. They hardly ever share a bed anymore. Not that they argue much, exactly. It's just that, ever since Darren went, Mum's headaches have been getting worse. She spends half her life sleeping now, and Dad just doesn't want to disturb her. That's how he ends up in front of the TV every night, sinking can after can of corner-shop beer until he finally manages to sleep.
I do my best not to think about it. I have other things to worry about at the moment.
In the kitchen I open the fridge for light and grab a plastic bag off the counter. I fill it with whatever I can find: half a loaf of bread, some packets of crisps and a couple from the small selection of tins we still have in the cupboard. On the way out, as an afterthought, I pull open the little cabinet drawer where Dad keeps all his work keys and fish out a set, and grab one of my old coats from under the stairs.
It's with a sense of relief that I leave the house again and set off back down the stairs towards the beach. I keep pace down the steps and out onto the waterfront. At the first opportunity I head down onto the beach and start walking up towards where I last saw the girl.
For a minute or two I can't see anyone; in the dark of the night the beach looks deserted, and I'm certain that the girl must have taken off while I was gone. Disappointment floods me, slow and heavy. But then, when I'm almost on top of her, I catch sight of her huddled up against the concrete sea wall.
"Here you go," I say, holding out the coat and the plastic bag. She comes forward and takes them from me warily, like a wild animal accepting food, then retreats again, opens up the plastic bag and starts tearing hungrily into the bread.
"How long has it been since you last ate?" I ask.
She pauses, swallows, avoids my gaze. "A while," she says, then goes back to her food. I watch her eat. Closer to I can see that she's clearly been beaten up. The grey overalls she wears are torn and stained with mud and blood, and her hands are cut and grazed in a dozen places, her wrists bloody and bruised.
