‘Look, you … I don’t understand, these are your photographs, you’re paying for them – why do you keep flicking V signs every time I ask you to smile – you’re wasting your own money … no, please, put them back …’

McAvoy finds himself grinning as he watches his best man run off into the woods carrying two lenses from the photographer’s open bag, followed by a gaggle of young girls in puffy skirts and glittery makeup. On the path, treading rose petals and confetti into the damp gravel, a semi-circle of Traveller men and women are roaring with laughter, raising half full glasses and occasionally bursting into song. It had been a beautiful service, apparently. Valentine, with fresh tramlines shaved into the neat fuzz on his skull and looking exceptional in a pure white three-piece suit, had brought the place down when he pretended to pinch the wedding rings. McAvoy had been grateful for the laughter, as it had covered his stumble when reciting the vows. He’d been so nervous he could barely speak. He just kept his eyes on Roisin’s and tried to behave like somebody who might be worthy of her love. She glowed. He’d heard the expression before, but had never seen it so perfectly exhibited. She wore ivory, bare-backed, slim-waisted; a black Madonna necklace on a gold chain at her neck and a dainty floral headdress in her dark hair. She was barefoot, her feet leaving neat prints on the cold flagstones of the church as she walked up the aisle on her daddy’s arm. McAvoy had dressed as the Teagues had suggested. The suit, tailored without his knowledge, had been waiting on the peg in his hotel room: a soft grey tweed with a sky blue lining and a waistcoat patterned in gold-and-blue silk. He’d worn a neckerchief, pure white, and pinned at the throat. The congregation has told him he looked like a model. The mirror in the hotel room told him he looked absolutely ridiculous. Still, Roisin had delighted in his appearance, and Papa Teague, beaming with pride, told him that he looked more like a Pavee than a policeman: a curious compliment that McAvoy has yet to process.

‘You’ve made her the happiest lass alive,’ comes a voice, at his ear.

He turns. Papa Teague. Gold sovereigns on his fingers, fat cigar in his mouth; black porkpie hat brushed clean. He’s grinning, happy in a cloud of poteen, Guinness and tobacco. He nods across the clearing, to where Roisin, still barefoot, is having a kickabout with two male cousins, the hems of her skirt already soaked through.

‘She’s made me happy too,’ says McAvoy, earnestly. ‘More than that. I don’t even know what to call it …’

‘Call it smitten, boy. Call it love. And don’t be fretting, we don’t need to have the chat.’

‘The chat?’

‘You know, the one where I tells you that if you mess around on her or hurt her or make her feel second-rate, I’ll skin you and feed you your own face. No need for such unpleasantness.’