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‘She was on board the Arianna,’ I say.
He shakes his head. ‘They’re all ghosts.’
‘I’m real,’ says Evie.
Raising his right hand, he reaches towards her, as if he can touch the past with his fingertips. Then he rocks his head from side to side, saying, ‘No. No.’
He gets to his feet and picks up the axe, swinging it a final time, driving the blade into the stump. Turning, he shuffles slowly towards the hut. I call after him. ‘Why are they ghosts?’
Ignoring me, he disappears inside and I can hear him rummaging, opening drawers and cupboards.
Evie has gone quiet. ‘Something is wrong,’ she whispers.
‘Was he telling the truth?’
She nods.
When he reappears, there is a dark object in his right hand. It takes me a moment to recognise the shape. He holds up a semi-automatic pistol, running his finger along the barrel, treating it like an artefact.
‘The Russians smuggle these,’ he says. ‘This one cost me a case of whisky.’
He slides off the safety catch and closes one eye, checking the chamber of the pistol. A fly lands on his forehead. I expect him to brush it away, but it crawls across his nose and pauses at his left nostril. He doesn’t seem bothered.
I push Evie behind me. ‘Put the gun down, Finn.’
He looks at the weapon and back to me, running his tongue across his lips.
‘We only want to talk,’ I say.
‘Ah’m done talking.’
Evie steps out, giving him a clear shot. The gun moves from pointing at my chest to Evie and back again to me.
‘What happened to my mother and sister?’ asks Evie. ‘Agnesa was the pretty one. She cooked for you.’
‘All ghosts,’ groans Finn, raising one hand and slapping his face, cursing, ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’
‘Finn, listen to me. Put down the gun,’ I say.
‘Leave me alone. Please?’ he begs, but I don’t think he’s talking to us. His eyes are peering into the distance.
‘What happened to the others?’ asks Evie.
‘They’re here,’ he mutters. ‘They watch me. They talk to me.’
‘What do they say?’
Raising the gun, he presses the barrel under his chin.
‘No!’ I cry.
He pulls the trigger. Instead of an explosion, I hear a dull click. The round has jammed, or the chamber is empty. Finn moans and lowers the gun, looking at it traitorously. He bangs it against the heel of his other hand, as though trying to dislodge an impediment. Then he pulls the slide, poking his finger into the ejection port, breathing hard in frustration.
I move towards him. Just as quickly, he aims the pistol at me. I stop. Evie grabs my arm, pulling me away. We retreat past the ramshackle hut and the tethered goat and the abandoned dinghy. With each step, I expect to hear the bullet sliding into the chamber. The trigger. The explosion.
We’re almost at the Fiat when the sound comes – a sharp crack that echoes off the sand dunes and the low hills. Evie throws herself to the ground. I fall with her, shielding her with my body. My face is pressed against her back. I can feel her heart beating.
‘Are you hurt?’ I whisper.
