‘Where you leave boxes and cigarettes in bedside tables?’

‘Yes, I’m sorry about that. I had meant to remove them before you arrived.’

‘Why didn’t you then?’

‘Minor change of plan.’

‘I see.’

‘As you’ve found out the hard way, life in the desert can be a little unpredictable.’

‘I guess,’ I say ruefully, then fall silent as he sets the bottle on the table and unclips his Leatherman from its leather pouch. ‘So what is this cabin?’

‘It’s an old schoolroom.’

‘Part of the town?’ I’m surprised. There is no mention of a schoolroom on the Temerosa deeds.

‘Built between Temerosa and Black Mesa – another ghost town. Shared by the two.’

The long pauses that have always characterized Duval’s speech are gone, and without them it feels like he’s finally talking in sync. ‘You realize your accent’s slipping, don’t you?’ I tell him. In answer he pinches out the blade of his knife.

‘Sanchez,’ he shouts.

‘Who are you? Is Duval even your real name?’

‘Roll up your jeans.’

I look at the approaching knife. ‘You’re not going to use that on me, are you?’

‘Roll them up.’

I do as he says. The blood has dried, dark and thick on my skin, like a layer of Marmite or congealed redcurrant jelly. Duval cuts the cloth into three strips, then he takes the bottle of water off the table and sloshes it up and down my calf. Using one of the strips, he starts daubing at the blood around the general area of the hole. I bite my lip. He moves to the second cloth. Clean, the wound looks disappointingly pedestrian, no bigger than the head of a drawing pin. Duval squints at it with a certain forensic detachment then squeezes it open and shut.

‘Ow,’ I say crossly, ‘that hurts!’

‘Good. Now I know I’m in the right place.’

‘I might have thought the hole was an indication of that.’

‘Nail?’

I nod.

‘Had a tetanus shot recently?’

‘No.’

‘Pity.’ He trickles more water into the wound, then pokes at it with his finger. ‘You need water pressure to get this clean. Unfortunately, as you may have noticed, our amenities here are a little basic.’ He digs in deeper with his finger. I wince.

‘Sanchez!’ he shouts again.

This time Sanchez appears. Duval says something to him in Spanish.

‘What? What did you ask him?’

‘Hold the leg like this,’ Duval instructs and Sanchez takes over the opening and shutting routine as Duval reaches for the bottle of purple brew.

‘Hey! What’s in that?’

‘This might hurt a little,’ he says gently and sloshes the liquid straight inside the hole.

A line of fire burns through my leg as if someone has shovelled smouldering coals along its length. Duval quickly lifts my foot by the heel and pours on another shot. I buck against Sanchez’s hand, but the Mexican holds fast.