‘We’ve a way to go, boy,’ says the man, crouching down in front of him. ‘Don’t you think about dying. I need your mammy and your daddy and your grandfather to see you breathing, so they know I’m a man of my word. You’re no good to me dead, boy. Do you know how many years I’ve thought about this? About your mother? She did it, you see. She told her daddy that it was me. Maybe she was mistaken, maybe she really didn’t recognize me, with all the mud and blood and tyre-tracks on my face. Maybe she was too loved up and didn’t even give it a thought. But your grandfather took her at her word. Put me through the trials of Job, so he did. Left me to devour myself, like an animal beneath the ground. And that’s what will happen to your mammy, boy. I’ll make your father an offer. He can have his boy back, but it will cost him his wife. That will be his punishment. Your grandfather, he’ll be the last to die. He’ll know what’s happening to his daughter, because he did it to me. And as for your dad, I want him to know that life isn’t what he thought it was. He’s not my enemy, boy. He’s not Teague blood. But he was there. He could have asked questions. Could have asked about the man who did all those things to Eva-Jayne Puck. Could have told Papa Teague that he was visiting Hell on a man who only killed those he was paid to kill. I’d never have gone for Roisin Teague if the brothers hadn’t tried to cash in. The Heldens wouldn’t have harmed her. Nobody knew where she was. And I spent years under the ground as punishment for something I didn’t do!’

Fin spits. Sobs. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about! I don’t know these names! My dad’s a police officer. I don’t know what was done to you, but I swear, if you ask him to choose between me and Mammy, he won’t do it. He’ll just kill you. He’s not a violent man, Mammy always says that. But for me? For Mammy? You need to stop this now. Whatever you think you’re doing, it won’t …’

A movement in front of him. The rush of flesh and bones and the sudden, sickening impact of a boot in his gut. He jerks, vomit surging acidly up his throat. Curls into a ball. Bucks, as another boot thuds into his chest. Tries to cover up and feels the sudden release as he yanks his wrists apart. Stares at the tip of the nail that skewers his right wrist. Presses his lips to the open wound in his left hand, his mouth filling with the iron foulness of his own blood.

‘Your father!’ he hisses. ‘Hurt me? I’ve watched you all, boy. Your father’s a big man, but he’s weak. I’ve seen him when you’re all asleep – seen him sitting there, tears on his cheeks, holding himself like a fucking child. I’ve seen him standing at your bedside, looking down on you like he’s staring into a coffin. He lives his life in fear, boy. Always got one eye on the grave, so he has. Always preparing for the day when it all ends, when payment is demanded for his happiness. Well, that’s what I am, boy. I’ve come to collect. To show him that he doesn’t get to have life and love and contentment. No, he gets to agonize. To grieve. To hate himself every day.’