The vehicle jerks left and right as it hits the trenches and rises in the dirt track. On either side, the trees reach out their branches; black, claw-like twigs intertwining overhead: a spindly mesh that turns the early-morning sunlight into a camouflage pattern on the rain-speckled metal of the car.

Papa Teague slows as he reaches the squat, white-painted farmhouse at the end of the road. It sits in the centre of some fifty acres of arable farmland, though the fields haven’t been turned these past twelve years. Nobody has knocked on this door in years. The nearest neighbour is three miles away, and they know better than to come asking for a cup of sugar. This is a bad place. People were hurt here, years ago. They say there’s still blood on the ceiling; brains turning the flock wallpaper to gory woodchip. Papa Teague cannot verify the truth of the statement. Just knows it’s a safe place; a sanctuary, where no bugger would be fool enough to come asking questions or causing problems.

He switches off the engine. Enjoys the silence. There’s a little shiver in his gut; a suppressed tremble of anticipation. It used to be this way in the day before a fistfight. He could already feel the cold agony of his own healing wounds; the broken bones, the blood trickling down his throat every time he slept lying down. He could look at his hands and call to mind the sensation of their breaking; swelling; bleeding. He would force himself to confront the pain that was to come. By the time the fight began, he would already have endured the worst he could imagine. Had experienced it, and come through the other side. And he could concentrate instead on inflicting pain.

He steps from the vehicle. Admires himself in the darkened glass. Still a forbidding figure, all in all. Hasn’t turned into his father yet. Still got broad shoulders and arms that strain at the fabric of his dark-blue shirt. There’s a gut, behind his mustard-coloured waistcoat, but not one to be ashamed of. He’s man-sized. Man-shaped. All fecking man.

He takes off the porkpie hat and chucks it on the driving seat. Rolls back the sleeves of his shirt. Slowly takes off his big gold rings and the identity bracelet at his wrist. Places them all in a little black velvet bag and chucks the lot inside his hat. He reaches across and removes a wooden crate from the footwell. It’s heavy, but he doesn’t let himself show that it’s a struggle. Even here, even alone, he doesn’t want to show weakness.

He looks up. Watches the rain. Wonders how long he’ll keep doing this. When he will receive the sign from the Almighty that enough is enough.

Says a prayer. Crosses himself with his hands full. Nods, as if making his peace with God. Then he crosses the muddy forecourt at the front of the farmhouse and trudges past a series of outbuildings. They are rarely empty. He has stored all manner of contraband here over the years. He reminds himself to pick up a crate of the stolen cut-throat razors that one of his boys helped himself to at the docks. They’re German. Quality steel. Perhaps his son-in-law would like one as a birthday present. He rather likes the thought of that, much as he likes the lad. His hatred of coppers outweighs his love for his daughter’s husband.