Pharaoh snorts as she laughs. Buzzes the window down and chucks her cigarette butt onto the driveway of the Audi as he goes volubly insane behind her. ‘Course he does. I’ll talk to you later.’

She ends the call. Sits back. Lowers her sunglasses and gives Roisin her best stare. ‘All good, then?’

‘He’s hurt. Fin too. But they’re OK.’

‘And I’m going to have to sort out a lot of mess, am I? But I’ll do that because it’s him, and I’ll do anything for him, yes?’

Roisin takes a cigarette from her bra. Pharaoh lights it for her. ‘I mean it in a good way,’ says Roisin, meeting her eyes. ‘He’s alive because of you. He’s all that he is because of you. When I think of all the times it could have gone differently, honestly, I promise you, Trish, you’re always in my prayers. I thank God for you. I might give you shit but that’s because I know how easy it is to love him and because sometimes he comes home smelling of you, and the thought of losing him breaks my heart. But when that bastard came for Fin, I didn’t think of calling Aector – I thought of calling you.’

Pharaoh looks away first, flicking her glasses back up and wishing she still had a cigarette on the go. She blinks a couple of times. Looks away before Roisin can spot the tear that spills from her tired eyes.

‘Ever been to Fitling?’ she asks, flicking a V-sign to the driver behind and pulling into traffic.

‘Pig farm? Tea room? He took me there for an afternoon tea once. Nice cakes, bad smell.’

‘You should work in advertising,’ says Pharaoh with a smile, and switches on the radio. The local news is just finishing. Bad weather to come. The lifeboat has been launched from Cleethorpes to attend an incident at Haile Sands Fort in the Humber estuary. She glances at Roisin, who is wincing in advance.

‘Is he …?’

Roisin nods. ‘Taking Fin to be checked out. He’s with an Irish copper. There’s been an … incident …’

Pharaoh growls. Takes the cigarette from Roisin’s lips and inserts it between her own. ‘Course there fucking has.’

Eleven years ago

‘McAvoy.’

He jerks upright, banging his head on the door of the people carrier. Closes his eyes for a moment as the pain travels around his skull like a satellite in orbit. Opens them again when he realizes that for the briefest of moments, his son is technically untended. Checks his boy. Two months old now and putting on weight. Salami arms and apricot cheeks and chubby little fingers gripping at the air as if digging through clay. Brown eyes, red hair. Just shy of seven pounds when he was born. Smaller than they’d expected. Roisin reckoned he was keeping himself on the dainty side so as to spare her as much agony as he could.

‘Thought that was you – I saw you from the window …’