‘And the man. Cromwell …’

Roisin looks apologetic. ‘Daddy’s man took care of him. The brothers too. They’re in the ground.’

McAvoy screws up his eyes. ‘But there’s an ongoing investigation … a murder enquiry … people will be looking for me …’

Roisin shakes her head. ‘I’ve been to the station. Made a statement about what I saw. They’re happy with it all. Phoned your station and said you’d had a family emergency and wouldn’t be in for a few days. Nobody seemed concerned.’

McAvoy’s face twists in anguish. He looks round, not quite believing where he is, who he’s with, what he’s being expected to accept. ‘And the feud?’ he asks. ‘Are you safe? Your family? The Heldens …?’

‘They were disgusted that their man would go for family. Do the things he did to Eva-Jayne. What he was willing to do to me. The man was a fecking monster. They should never have let him out of his cage. Daddy and the boys have come to an agreement. It’s OK. Look on YouTube, you’ll see them all preaching peace and sharing fecking cigars.’

McAvoy feels the warmth of the honey-liquid seeping through him. His thoughts are heavy, his limbs barely responding to his command. And yet the nearness of her, the warmth of her. He feels enchanted; spellbound.

‘Roisin,’ he begins.

She puts her fingers to his lips. Kisses his cheek. His eyelids. The tip of his nose. Kisses his mouth, warmly, wetly. Her tongue snakes over his pained, cracked lips. Finds his. Smiles into his mouth. Sings.

‘No, we can’t …’

‘We already have.’

She lifts the covers. Climbs in beside him, still wrapped in the shawl. Feels her reach up and touch the dark smudge of stubble upon his face. Raises his hand and encases her wrist, gently bringing her fingers to his eyeline. The skin is crusted, swollen; the nails missing, as if pulled out by pincers. Without planning to, a surprise even to himself, he puts the fingertips to his lips. Kisses them, softly, one at a time. Looks down at her, curled inside the great plaited top of his arm, looking up at him with that bright-eyed, faraway look. He feels a newness inside himself; a pressure in his chest that feels like a living thing: something fragile and perfect and bigger than any sensation he has ever known.

Her lips upon his. His upon hers.

‘I don’t want to go anywhere,’ she whispers, against his skin. ‘I want to be with you. Always with you …’

‘Your people,’ he says, as her song floods him; as he runs his hands through the mane of hair and holds it in his fingers as if enchanted. ‘My life … your life … I’m a police officer, you’re a Traveller …’

‘You’ve saved me twice. Daddy would build you a statue made of gold …’

‘You saved me, Roisin. You don’t need saving. And you’re so young. Too young. Don’t saddle yourself to somebody … not now, you can be anything …’