It's another hour before the first perseid meteor comes into view. It streaks across the horizon: thin, uninspiring and low, accompanied by a few muted shouts from the crowd. By that time the meteorologist's girlfriend is back from her rounds and Michael is in front of the lectern shouting up at us.

'They've started started.'

'I see that.'

'Sorry, I'm so late. I got held up at the club.'

'How did it go?'

'Pretty good. Pretty good. Can I come up there?'

Michael scrambles up onto the stage without using the stairs; he makes a big show of turning up. He has a funny story to tell about the taxi, that's not all that funny; he has news about the jazz club that I don't find interesting.

'It was great, they really liked me. I think they're going to offer me a gig.'

'For how long?'

'I don't know, they didn't say. I told them I had a few commitments to take care of.'

'Are you a musician?'

Michael simpers and rubs his fingers through his fringe, directing all attention to the meteorologist's girlfriend.

'I'm a pianist. Cla.s.sically trained, I play jazz.'

The girl smiles. Connor doesn't say a word. Michael is off on a rant: who he likes, who he loves, who he hates in the world of modern jazz. He's had a line of c.o.keor severaland he's keen to talk about himself. I wait. I'm patient. He'll get round to it sooner or later.

'So, Claire, what's been going on? Any news?'

I shake my head.

'There's too many people, I haven't seen him.'

Michael puts his hands on my shoulders and squeezes them a little too hard. A pop like a flashbulb makes us jump and look up. A radiant, bitter-orange coloured meteor is diving towards us, dead ahead.

'We're on,' says Connor. 'Here we go.'

Every so often nature comes up with something so beguiling, so winning, it washes your mind of all thoughts and worries. A dozen shooting stars clap their hands in the sky announcing the start of the show. They race one anotherplayful and athleticcajoling us, warming us up. Larger ones follow on after themolder and wiserpainting elegant arcs on the horizon. Brilliant missiles burst apart above our heads, ripping the sky like fiery whips. I feel disorientated suddenly, and unstable, like I might tumble into the very sky I'm watching; like it might suddenly devour me in its fizzy blackness. The horizon is pulsing with light, now: twenty, thirty, fifty meteors all at once, some of them combining and crossing over and almost seeming to explode. It's not a shower, it's a storm. Something rare and beautiful and largely unexpected, even by the most experienced observers.

'f.u.c.k, it's like fireworks,' says Michael. 'It's just like watching fireworks.'

He's wrong, it's nothing like fireworks. Fireworks are man-made and ordinary: simple cones of gunpowder, garish and noisy, lit up to make tired children gasp. This is something else altogether: ancient grains of matter slamming into the earth's atmosphere at two hundred times the speed of sound. There are so many of them, fizzing, pulsating and dancing, that at times it feels like an a.s.sault. Michael puts his arms round my waist, clumsily roughly; his voice is loud. He whoops every few seconds and cries out from deep in his lungs, and I want him to be still, to be quiet.

'Look at them go? How many is there up there? Must be hundreds, f.u.c.k f.u.c.k.'

Michael starts to leap about.

'We should wish. We should wish wish. What should we wish for? Guys, we should all make a wish.'

The meteorologist holds his girlfriend's hand; he doesn't squeeze it or maul it.

'A number one alb.u.m, a house by the sea. For Huey to win a best actor Oscar. How great would that be? Me with a Grammy, Huey with an Oscar, you and Tess strutting down the red carpet in your s.e.xy dresses?...have you wished yet, Shorty. Did you wish?'

I watch the meterologist brush his lips up against his girlfriend's cheek.

'Yeah, Michael,' I say, staring down for a moment. 'I did. I made a couple.'

Another streak, fierce and bright, scorches the sky from east to west. It seems to last for minutes, glowing and blossoming before it dies, and the crowd falls silent, stunned by its energy and brilliance. Then comes another. Then another. Then comes the sound of heavy footfalls; someone walking up the wooden steps.

'Hey, guys, how's it going? Pretty spectacular show, huh?'

We nod with our heads tilted back at the sky; it's one of the park rangers, a friend of Ashley's.

'So, Ash. I may have spotted that guy you were asking me about.'

'Which guy?'

'The guy on the print-out, that Xerox that you gave me.'

I stand up out of my deckchair. Michael lays down on the floor. He spreads his arms out in the shape of a crucifix and asks the park ranger if he has any dope on him.

'Where did you see him?' I say.

'He was over behind the picnic grounds. He came up to speak to me, wanted to know if there was anywhere quieter he could go watch the show. Some people were lighting bonfires and shining torches, it was too bright out there, messing with the view.'

'Did you...did you recommend another place?'

'I told him he ought to try it out by the lake, it's a whole lot quieter down there. I didn't recognise him until after he'd gone...I didn't unfold the print-out until later.'

I leave Michael just where he is, laid out and giggling on the floor. He's drunk and high and irascible and he's in no fit state to come with us. Connor offers to drive me over to the lake on one of the quad bikes and I have to put my arms tight around his waist to stay on. He drives agreeably fast: taking short cuts through the mud and long gra.s.ses, and tearing up the rubber wheels on the gravel paths. The meteors shine hard above us as we gohuffing, puffing, and showing offbut by the time we reach the far side of the lake the display is beginning to die down. The streaks come every few minutes instead of every few seconds and they're fainter, shorter, less colourful. People with sore necks are rubbing their aching muscles: taking a break, eating a sandwich, fixing themselves something cold to drink.

'I think this is where he meant, do you see him?'

I climb off the bike and take a breath. My heart is racing from the drive. It is quieter out here and darker, but there are still a couple of hundred people milling around. It takes me a few seconds to be sure, but I'm certain this is the same spot I came to earlier. We walk up and down the crowd, back and forth, back and forth, until my eyes are sore from the staring. I hand out my leaflets but most people ignore them or screw them up into b.a.l.l.s after I leave. The last person I talk to takes a leaflet from my hand and actually bothers to returns my gaze. He stares at the bleached-out picture and squints.

'Yeah, I just talked to him, he just left. Cool guy, knew a lot about meteors.'

'You're sure it was him?'

He looks closer at the photocopy.

'Yeah, I'd say so. An English guy, right?'

I seem to stumble. Connor takes over.

'When did he leave...did you see which way he went?'

The man shakes his head, he doesn't know. He thinks my brother moved away as soon as the meteors died down, perhaps he wanted to get away early and miss the traffic. He might have walked in the direction of the car park, he might have gone off through the woods.

'Did he say where he was headed? Maybe he mentioned where he was staying?'

'A motel, I think. He didn't say which one. Said he was travelling around a fair bit. Thinking of heading down to Mexico...or was it Canada...just waiting on a new pa.s.sport, or something.'

I can't stand up any longer. Somehow, I can't seem to stand up. If he moves on from here, if he gets brand new doc.u.ments; there's no way on earth that I'll find him. I'll be done for. If only I'd trusted my intuition and stayed put. If only I hadn't left to find Michael. I would have seen him. I would have had had him. I knew he'd be out here. I him. I knew he'd be out here. I knew knew it. it.

Connor bends down to help me up, offering me his arm.

'Are you OK?' he says, gently.

'No,' I say. 'Not really. I was here earlier, barely a few feet away. I should have stayed where I was. I should have trusted my instincts.'

'Why didn't you?'

I frown.

'Because...my instincts are usually lousy.'

We make one final scan of the crowd and trudge wearily back to the bike.

'Hey...wait up.'

The man is chasing after us.

'Hey, I forgot to say...I just remembered. I don't know where he's headed long term, but I do do know where he'll be Monday afternoon. He's going out to Cape Canaveral for a rocket launch. Was pretty definite about it. A little obsessive, even. A little psyched.' know where he'll be Monday afternoon. He's going out to Cape Canaveral for a rocket launch. Was pretty definite about it. A little obsessive, even. A little psyched.'

'You're sure?' says Connor.

'Yes,' says the man. 'I'm positive.'

I start to cry.

The meteors stop.

On the drive back to the observatory, Connor says little. We park up a way before the lecture stage and walk back together in the quiet. People are exiting from every direction; pushing past us with their baggage and their equipment, knowing the show is over, knowing there's nothing left to hold on to. I can see Michael up by the lectern, spread out on the wooden floorboards, possibly snoring.

'Look, this is none of my business,' Connor says, as we walk. 'But that guy, your ex...he seems like a bit of an a.s.shole.'

'He is.'

'So why...?'

I shrug.

'He's not like that all the time, he just drank too much...he has his moments.'

'Well...sure. I understand.'

He doesn't. I feel the need to explain.

'I know where I am with him. I don't expect too much. That way...he doesn't disappoint me.'

Connor stops for a moment.

'Well, I could be wrong,' he says. 'But when I look at you...I don't think I've ever seen anyone more disappointed.'

Foreign Bodies.

Huey helps me put Michael to bed. We flop him down heavily on the mattress, shift his jelly legs from the bare lino floor, and stuff them underneath the stale covers. It's hard work, Michael is almost comatose. We could use an extra person to help us but Tess is fast asleep, storing up some rest for the operation. Huey hasn't been to bed yet. He's wide awake and stone cold sober, mulling things over in his head.

'How did you get on?'

'Good. Sort of. He was there.'

'You saw saw him?' him?'

I shake my head. One of Michael's arms flops out of the covers and he groans as his shoulders. .h.i.t the floor.

'No,' I say. 'I just missed him. But I did find someone who'd spoken to him.'

'Did they know anything? About where he is, where he's staying?'

'No, they mostly talked about meteors and comets, but this guy seemed to think...have you got him?'

'I've got him.'

We shift Michael's shoulders back onto the mattress.

'He seemed to think Daniel was planning a visit to Cape Canaveral to see a rocket launch. I'm going to head up there on Monday.'

'The s.p.a.ce Centre?'

I nod. My forehead is sweating. Michael is snoring and in position.

'Well, that's cool then,' says Huey, encouragingly. 'You're still in there, still in there with a chance.'

We leave Michael to sleep off his excesses and head out into the living room. It's almost dawnthat blurry half-hour before the end of night and the start of dayand all is quiet. It's a late riser this island, a heavy sleeper: a stumble-out-of-bed strip of land. The beach won't be busy for hours, which means the new day can't touch me just yet. I can't f.u.c.k things up. I'm safe for a while, I can relax. Huey rolls the both of us a fat, pungent joint and the moment it's made I take it from him. I need to feel washed away: to drift for a moment, to dream. I feel so tensed up, so defeated.

'You feel lousy that you missed him, huh?'

'I should have stayed where I was, Huey. I should have just...stayed put.'

'You couldn't have known,' he says, kindly. 'You can't predict that kind of stuff. If you'd stayed out there by the lake, chances are he'd have ended up going somewhere else.'

He smiles a warm smile, encouraging me to keep my chin up.