‘Touch the panel gently here and here,’ he reiterated, ‘two hands and the panel will slide away. But this is for emergencies only, OK? If we get any more assholes showing up here, you come in this room, lock the door and get behind this bookcase as quickly as you can. You hide in the box till I whistle. Nobody knows this is here but me and you.’

‘Not even Paco?’

‘Not even Paco.’

‘Where did you get all this from?’

‘I’ve amassed it over the years, some is army surplus; other things stolen from rival cartels. It varies.’

‘Will you teach me how to fire a gun? I’ve never done it before?’

‘You haven’t?’ I shook my head. ‘You’re missing out.’

He set about teaching me how to load and fire every piece. I practised on the empty tin cans Paco had lined up along the fence at the end of the lawn. The first time I fired a pistol, I recoiled – the sound reverberated around the whole valley, like it was ricocheting off the walls of the world.

‘Steel yourself, gatita,’ Tenoch would say. ‘It’s you or them. Two shots, aim for between the eyes and the hairline.’

‘Have you got any earplugs?’

He laughed. ‘They’re coming to get you, you’re gonna stop and find your earplugs before you fire back? Do it again. Reload.’

And I did. After several more attempts and multiple wipes of my sweaty palms on my shorts, I got quite steady with an AR-15 and a Glock 22. And I discovered that getting praise felt better than getting a shot on target. Like when Dad used to praise me. Like all the praise I got when I got stronger on my legs after rehab. I’d get paid in Sylvanians for every big milestone – walking more steps, completing a full sentence.

Tenoch didn’t do that, of course. He’d just holler ‘Good girl’ or ‘Well done’ and with practice my hold got steadier and my shot got closer to the red bullseyes he’d painted on the sides of the cans. Blandishments, compliments, hugs, carrots not sticks, worked wonders. Happiness found me again.

‘My girl’s a sharp-shooter, eh?’ he would laugh and clap when I’d hit my tenth can in a row off the fence. ‘How are you doing this?’

‘Thinking about Paco,’ I smirked, aiming again and hitting the bullseye. ‘Makes me shoot straighter.’ I fired but my shot went off course and hit one of my plants, shooting the centre of it clean out. ‘Well, it did.’

He cackled. ‘See? You’re allowing emotion to get the better of you. Killing is a business – clean, efficient, necessary. Try again.’

‘I still hate the fucker.’

‘I will tell him to leave you alone.’