‘You’ll tell her,’ says Helden, quietly. ‘Your daughter? The copper? He’ll come for them, sure as shite.’

Papa licks his dry lips. He is losing people he loves; is terrified of every shadow and sudden sound, but the thought of telling Roisin that her attacker still lives is something that he cannot bring himself to do. She has found a happiness he did not imagine she could ever feel. He knows what he will do to that fragile contentment were he to tell her that the man who killed Eva-Jayne is free and seeking vengeance.

‘He can’t kill us all,’ says Danior, thoughtfully. ‘Those years, the injuries. He’s fast, he’s lethal, but somebody will get him. You’ve heard what he’s become. A demon. Maggot-white, that’s what the lad says. Fingers like claws. Not a tooth in his head or a hair on his head. Somebody will see him. We’ll stop him. But we need to be on the lookout. Everybody needs to be prepared. You have to tell her, cousin.’

Teague doesn’t speak. Looks around, slowly. Jerks his head at the door. ‘Why here, Danior? All the fecking places … why here?’

Danior smiles, though there’s no joy in it. Jerks his head at the doorway and gestures for Teague to follow him. Leads him into a single room: a white metal bed, leather restraint straps dangling from the frame like flaps of skin. Green linoleum, scuffed down to nothing, white coats hanging on pegs by the far wall.

Teague takes a sniff of the dead air. Mould, rotten wood, damp feathers. And something deeper. Something earthy. Something that reeks of the grave.

He crosses to the bed. There is an indentation in the mattress. A stain upon the mottled grey covering; a paint-blot; open mouth, staring eyes; a ghoulish twist to the mouth. Teague touches the pillow. Puts his fingers to his mouth. Crosses himself.

‘He’s been home,’ says Teague, softly. It’s real, at last. He survived. He’s come for blood. He’ll want Roisin. Her husband. Her children …

‘Came back to where we first found him,’ says Danior, softly.

Teague looks to the weapon in his hand. Hates it all. Hates the violence, and the back-and-forth, and the endless waves of blood and pain and retaliation. He throws the curved blade. It sticks into the plaster beside the white coats, the handle juddering like a diving board.

He turns away from the bed. ‘We need to make ourselves scarce, cousin. Keep him guessing. Keep moving. Keep giving ourselves a fighting chance …’

Danior nods. ‘Or I could just give him you and see if that satisfies him.’

Teague nods. Sighs. Looks up to see the other man holding an old, black service revolver, the trigger cocked.

‘Maybe if I do you, it all ends. I wish it weren’t like this, cousin …’

Papa Teague fires his weapon through the fabric of his waistcoat. Feels the heat of the bullet, the kick of the recoil. Hears the endless reverberations as the sound of the shot echoes off the walls.