The sun is rising when Jimmy Curwen sets out on a cold November morning. He passes the lighthouse first, its tall form looming over St Agnes like a winter ghost. The building is one of his favourites, even though its light was removed years ago, but there’s no time to stop and admire it. Jimmy’s friends are waiting and he can’t disappoint them. He takes his usual route to the lake, with his binoculars hidden in his pocket.

He walks north through Middle Town, where the stone faces of a dozen houses observe his progress, keeping his head down to avoid the blank stares of shuttered windows. He only relaxes once he reaches open country, where no one will disturb him. The meadow is crisp with frost, grass crunching under foot, his heart lifting when he spies the Big Pool. Today, the expanse of water is as flat and shiny as polished glass, tinted pink by early sunlight. Yet none of his friends have come to greet him: the sky is empty, not a single cry of welcome.

Jimmy is about to return home when seagulls descend suddenly in a swirling cloud. The flock circles overhead, close enough to touch, bawling out raucous greetings. When he throws scraps of bread into the air, they battle for each crumb. He can smell brine on their wings, wet feathers caressing his cheeks. The birds stay long after the food supply is exhausted before disappearing back into the sky, leaving few of his favourite creatures behind. Oystercatchers wade towards him through the shallows, absorbing his attention.

His fingers are numb with cold by the time he slips his binoculars back into his pocket. There’s an odd smell on the air – a stench of burning fuel mixed with a sweetness he can’t identify. Now that the birds have gone, he notices smoke billowing from Burnt Island, as if someone is sending him a signal. He leaves the pool and picks his way across the sandbar that stretches from Blanket Bay.

Jimmy’s pace slows as he scrambles uphill, towards the source of the fire. The smell is stronger now, its sickly taste irritating the back of his throat. He’s panting for breath by the time he reaches the top. The sight that greets him makes little sense at first: a mound of charred sticks glowing a dull red, paraffin cans abandoned on the grass nearby. When he looks again, small flames surround a blackened mass at the heart of the bonfire. His stomach rolls with nausea. A face leers up at him from the ashes, melted flesh hanging from exposed cheekbones, empty eye sockets fixing him with a direct stare. The dead body appears to be begging for help and Jimmy can’t refuse. Another life slipped through his fingers years ago; this is his chance to make amends.

‘I’ll find out who hurt you,’ Jimmy mutters. ‘I promise.’

He can’t even tell whether the corpse is male or female. The sight sends him reeling backwards, desperate to escape, but his conscience keeps him rooted to the spot. His fingers catch on a rocky mound as he steadies himself. Letters have been scratched into the stone beside the bonfire, but he has never learned to read, forced to rely on the instructions of others. His gaze soon returns to the embers. Jimmy recalls something his mother used to say: always leave something for the dead, to show respect. His eyes smart with smoke and tears as he throws his sheepskin coat over the body, extinguishing the last flames. Jimmy recites the start of his mother’s favourite prayer. Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. His words vanish in the smoky air, his grey hair flying on the breeze as he stumbles towards safety.