‘Pint, please,’ said Josh to the scared-looking blonde girl at the bar. She had a look, just a faint look, of Claire when she dipped her head and pulled the pint. It clenched at his heart to see it.

Jesus, Claire, where are you? What happened?

He’d been back to the site again several times after telling Pally and Eva that he hadn’t found Claire in Moyross. Every time he found himself hoping against hope that there would be good news; but the Milos told him that Claire had not come home. The grief and pain of it all ate at him, chewed his innards.

Claire was gone from his life. And gone or not, she’d made her feelings plain to him. Now he had Shauna, who was sticking to him like glue. And what a live wire she was turning out to be, fucking him senseless night and day.

The barmaid placed his pint on the mat and took his money.

‘John the owner asked me to call in, said you had trouble.’

‘I don’t know nothing about that,’ she said quickly.

‘Worked here long?’

She shook her head. ‘Just a week.’

Looking at her expression, Josh was certain she wouldn’t be hanging around for much longer. No job was worth aggravation. Except his job, of course. In or out of a boxing ring, he was used to having to fight his corner. That was the Romany way. As soon as she’d rung up the sale on the cash register, she scuttled out the back, passing John who was just coming to the front of the bar.

‘Hello, Mr Flynn,’ he said. ‘Thought you were going to be in Ireland a while?’

‘I was. Now I’m back,’ said Josh. ‘That them, is it?’ He nodded to indicate the gang.

‘That’s them.’

‘All of them?’

‘Yeah, bastards. Frightening all the decent punters away. Picking on people having a quiet drink.’

‘You had words with them?’

He shrugged. ‘You bloody serious? Look at the fuckers. Old Bill’s been in once or twice. Done fuck-all, of course. Don’t look now, but they’re giving you the once-over.’

Josh turned slightly, leaning an elbow on the bar. Sure enough, a solid eighteen-stoner with grey hair pulled back in a ponytail was rising from his seat, leathers creaking, and coming over. It was the one with the intimidating SS flashes on the back of his jacket. His mates were grinning and nudging each other as they looked on. The biker made a show of running his eyes over Josh from head to toe, then said: ‘You don’t want to come in here, mate.’

‘Why’s that?’ asked Josh, swallowing down the last of his pint.

‘Because we own this place, arsehole.’

To Josh, everything seemed to slow down then. His breathing steadied and he was aware of his heart, beating. Of the music, pounding in rhythm.

‘Do you?’ asked Josh.