‘We’ll keep you right,’ she says, smiling, as she feels him tense.

It takes him a moment. His voice is a croak. ‘We …?’

He feels her nod. Feels her fingers kneading at the backs of his hands. Feels the yearning; the desperate hope for his delight.

‘Really?’

She nods. ‘I’m sorry. I thought we’d have time, just you and me. I didn’t do it on purpose. I didn’t even know if I could, after …’

He turns her to face him. Presses his forehead to hers. ‘You’re happy?’ he asks, quietly.

‘So happy. Scared, but happy.’

He grins, surprising himself with how easily the grin comes to his face. He feels a lightness in his chest, as if he were suddenly filled with a different, gentler blood. Then he gasps, panic gripping him. ‘The dress,’ he says. ‘Will it still …?’

He feels her laughing. Hears her call him a fecking eejit.

And here, now, the dead are forgotten over the roar of the living.

THIRTY-TWO

Roisin McAvoy: white-faced, the skin peeling from her lips. Her dark hair falls over her features like pond weed. She’s standing in reception, all but vibrating with nervousness; with outright fear.

‘Jesus, Roisin,’ says Pharaoh, under her breath, as she appears at the top of the stairs. She feels her temper bleed out. Feels nothing but pity.

‘Trish, I wasn’t sure if … well, whether I should, I don’t …’

Pharaoh passes through the security gate and takes Roisin’s elbow. Puts her face close to hers. She doesn’t smell right. Smells of stale cigarettes and unwashed clothes. Smells of sweat. There’s an iridescent shimmer to her cheeks; the salt of spilled, untended tears.

‘What’s happened?’ asks Pharaoh, her mouth so close to Roisin’s that her lips brush her ear. ‘Is he OK? Hector? He left the crime scene, ran – I can’t get hold of him …’

Roisin opens her mouth. Closes it again, biting a sigh in half. Looks up from under heavy, tear-rimed lashes. Stares into her with glassy eyes. ‘I don’t know,’ she hisses, angry and desperate. ‘I think I’m being punished. We’re all being punished. For what I did, for what I said …’

‘It’s OK,’ says Pharaoh. Soothingly. She glances over her shoulder. Two people are sitting in the uncomfortable chairs in front of the reception area, trying to pretend they’re not watching. ‘Meeting room two, Frank?’ she yells, to the desk sergeant. She gets a grunt in reply and the security gate swings back open. She puts her arms through Roisin’s. Pulls her close. She’s shivering. There’s so little meat on her bones that Pharaoh feels as though she is comforting a child. She has spent so long feeling jealous of this woman; resentful of her perfect love, her perfect life; the nearness of the man they both adore. But here, now, she feels no sense of superiority. She feels like a mother coddling a child.

‘You’re going to arrest me, I know you are,’ whispers Roisin, half to herself. ‘I didn’t know. I swear. He doesn’t want me to be here, he said not to bring you into it – said you’d only try to save him and end up incriminating yourself. But I have to. I have to try …’