Paco did anything Tenoch told him to. And if something happened to Tenoch, like an English chick massacring him in the night, you could bet the house Paco would wreak a swift and terrible revenge on his assailant.

A tall, patronising gum-chewer, he had Popeye’s forearms, fingers loaded with rings and always kept a set of handcuffs visible on his belt loop. Every time he looked directly at me, it felt like he was reading my thoughts. It was unsettling, to say the least.

And I wasn’t the only one unsettled. Celestina would avoid him too whenever he was at the house early, which wasn’t often. If he came into the room, she would leave it, whether she had finished her cleaning work or not. And when she did find herself in the same space, he always smacked her arse and laughed as she scampered away.

I noticed one thing about Paco above all else: when Tenoch was around, Paco didn’t talk to me much. It was when he was away that the cat started to play. For example, the car ride to Cabo for my first surgery consultation:

‘Why not you sit in the front with me, chica?’

‘I prefer the back, thanks.’

‘You can play with my radio.’

‘I’m fine. Thanks.’

‘So you serial killer, eh?’

‘I used to be,’ I said.

‘Serial killer once, serial killer for life. They don’t stop.’

‘I did.’

‘How many you kill?’

‘Eighteen.’

He did the Robert De Niro mouth suggesting this was a pretty decent batting average. ‘How you kill?’

I stared him down in the rear-view mirror. ‘Stabbed. Mostly.’

‘Nice.’ He broke stare to look back at the road, draping his right arm around the passenger seat head rest to flex it out. ‘I lost count at fifty.’

‘Congrats.’

He laughed and lit up a cigar that stank like feet and burnt tyres. ‘You ever have pesadillas? You know, the nightmares?’

‘No,’ I lied.

‘None of them play on your mind?’

‘No.’

He puffed on his cigar, which I thought was weird because he was such a health nut about his body. ‘Does anything play on your mind?’

‘Not really.’

I thought he was done with me but after a few miles he piped up again. ‘What about scary movies, Rhiannon?’

‘I don’t find them scary.’

‘Oh no? What about IT? Weren’t you scared of the clown in the drain?’

‘Reminded me of my nan. Same shaped forehead.’

I didn’t mean it to be funny but he still laughed, long and heartily, puffing his thick smoke out into the car. I buzzed down my window.

That Ophelia song came on the radio. Paco turned it off.

‘You scared about your surgery?’

‘No. I’m not having much done.’

‘It will be fine, don’t worry, chica. I had some done there myself. They’re the best. It don’t hurt.’

‘I said I’m not scared.’