He turns right at a patchy stretch of hedge and trudges across long, damp grass, soaking himself to the knees. He counts as he walks, his strides uniform, his eyes fixed on a point at the far end of the field, screened by a low stand of trees and a small drainage ditch running down to the stream.

He stops when he reaches one hundred. Looks around him at the tangled wildflowers and grasses. He can just make out the indentations; can see the subtle changes in the colour and texture of the greenery. He looks around, checking that he remains unobserved. Raises his eyes, ever alert for the presence of the Gardai helicopter. Sees only the blurry outlines of two ling-necked white birds, briefly illuminated by a blade of whitish sunlight. He wonders at its meaning. Can think of no negative interpretation of such a joyful scene. Sees only beauty, elegance, purity; the kiss of the dawn. He takes comfort in it. Takes strength.

From the crate, he removes an extendable, military-issue spade. Stretches the handle to its extremities and begins to work. Plunges the dull blade into the matted ground, taking care to keep the sods intact. He works up a sweat as he works, his back twinging as he rises to deposit each fresh chunk of black earth and green grass in a neat pile to his left. Spies the bone-bright roots; things that scuttle and squirm and burrow. Thinks of the poem that he used to know by heart and which now comes only in snatches. Thinks of the place where the shaft of the spade meets his palm; the rasp and suck and scrape of necessary toil.

The spade hits wood. A slow smile creeps over Papa Teague’s face. Dropping to his knees, he begins to clear the area by hand, pulling up tufts and weeds; letting the nettles and thistles assault his skin; wildflowers bleeding green upon his sweat-soaked shirt and forearms.

Soon, his hands are touching the curved black wood, his fingers searching out the edges of the hatch. It had pained him to so mistreat such an elegant wagon. It’s a proper vardo, crafted in the 1930s and home to generation after generation of distant kinsmen. It has witnessed births and deaths and all that comes in between. It was in a state of disrepair when he took it, in part-payment against an unmanageable debt. He’d planned to have it restored and to present it to his daughter as a gift: a way to keep her Pavee roots even while living within static walls. Instead, it serves as something that is at once jail cell and tomb.

Papa Teague checks the sky again. Inserts his fingers into the tiny space that he sawed into the bowtop roof. Pulls it back, arching his neck away from the opening before the stench can engulf him. Something like steam rises from the ink-black square. A warmth. The mingled scents of decay and filth and spilled, clotted blood. Fat flies hover briefly in the air above the hole, the light dazzling on their iridescent bodies. Papa Teague covers his mouth. Fights the bile. Reminds himself of what this man did. Of what he would have done had fate not intervened.