It’s only early, but already I’m hot and thirsty. Ten minutes ago my hair was wet from the shower and now it’s as brittle as the brush of the broom leaning against the wall beside me. I still can’t get used to it. I spent a whole childhood working out ways to keep things dry. Hanging clothes on a line in the salty wind, laying wet socks on the Aga, stuffing newspapers into gumboots. Nowadays, I’ve taken to not flushing the loo unless it’s absolutely necessary, unable to handle the guilt at five gallons less in my well. In Scotland, where rain and damp are the enemy, ‘wringing every last drop of water out of something’ means actually getting rid of the stuff. Here in Temerosa it means the opposite. Conserve is what nature must do to survive. A cactus needs only a centimetre of water a year to flower. Those little hairy chipmunk-like things that are forever scurrying beneath the wheels of the butterscotch truck live on only a few drops, and every time I see one I have a vision of it holidaying up in the Orkneys, drunk and happy, lying in a bog nursing a bloated belly full of brown peaty water.

‘Hello.’

I’m startled into spilling my coffee.

Duval is standing above me, shading his eyes from the sun.

‘How’s your leg?’

‘My leg?’ To my mortification, I feel blood suffusing my cheeks. ‘Fine.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yes, I’m sure.’

‘Let me see it.’

‘No!’ I’m annoyed to be caught unawares like this, barefoot, dreaming. I had wanted to be prepared, my line of questioning probing and focused, the presiding judge on the Duval case, deliberating whether or not to grant bail.

‘Come on. Let me see it.’ He squats down and I’ve no option but to pull up my jeans. He unravels the bandage slowly, while I become more self-conscious by the second. The leg is actually in pretty good shape, the bruising dying down, returning the skin to its unattractive pasty white. Duval turns my heel this way and that as though inspecting a prize parsnip at a country fair.

‘Nice scab,’ he says eventually.

‘Thanks.’

‘Don’t pick it, will you?’

‘Why not?’

‘It’ll be another few days before it’s the right consistency. You want it that nice chewy quality which makes it stick to your teeth.’

I hide a smile. ‘It looks disappointingly small for all that fuss.’

‘So do bullet holes.’ He presses the pads of his thumbs gently along the length of the bone. ‘Does it hurt?’

‘No.’

‘Liar.’

‘Well maybe. A little.’

‘Can you ride?’

‘Ride?’ I look up, thrown by the non sequitur. ‘No.’

‘Too painful? Or because you don’t want to?’

‘Because I’ve never been on a horse.’