Watches the other man fall to his knees, the back of his head now a streak of lumpy red against the damp walls.

Papa Teague makes the sign of the cross. Takes a pack of cards from his pocket. Cuts them, and drops a random picture card on the swiftly-emptying corpse of his kin.

He doesn’t look at it. Doesn’t need to.

Ever since Cromwell resurfaced, every card he has picked up has promised Death.

FORTY

1.58 p.m.
Fitling, Holderness

‘You were right about the smell,’ says Pharaoh, wrinkling her nose.

‘Oh that’s outside, is it?’ asks Roisin, innocently. ‘Didn’t like to say anything.’

‘You’re funny,’ says Pharaoh, scowling.

‘I know.’

Pharaoh glances at her phone. There’s no signal, but she had the foresight to download a map of the area before they were swallowed up by the endless flatness of Holderness. Brimley’s house is at the end of a long track, half a mile from the nearest neighbour and just on the periphery of the sweet, porcine stench.

‘I thought there was good money in being an estate agent,’ mutters Pharaoh, as the tyres struggle for purchase on the slick, arrow-straight little lane.

‘Maybe there’s a castle at the end,’ says Roisin, helpfully. She’s tutting at her phone, trying to get the damn thing to send a picture to Pharaoh’s daughter, Sophia. She was able to have a quick chat with Lilah before she was cut off, but Pharaoh can tell she’s regretting the decision to come with her. She wants to be with her children. Wants to hold her husband. Wants to call her father and tell him that she will never forgive him for all that his actions have put them through. Instead she has to settle for staring out of the window, staring at mile upon mile of nothingness.

‘You can see why people don’t want Travelers on their land,’ she grumbles. ‘No room.’

‘This can’t be right,’ says Pharaoh, ignoring her.

Up ahead is a small, unkempt little bungalow, plonked by the roadside like a discarded toy. It’s pebbledashed at the front but random chunks of plaster and stone are missing from the side walls, showing bare, damp brick beneath. The window frames are peeling, the front door streaked with dirt, as if kicked with a muddy boot. There are dead flowers in the window boxes. Dirty lace curtains. The front lawn is overgrown, speckled with a mulch of windblown leaves. There are dead rosebushes in the raised beds, twisted with the barbed wire of free-growing bramble-bushes. A Toyota Land Cruiser is parked in front of a little blue-roofed garage.

‘Nice,’ says Roisin, as Pharaoh pulls in to the grass verge and kills the engine.

‘Shall I crack a window? Dogs die in hot cars.’

‘It’s OK, if I feel unwell I’ll cut a hole in the roof.’

‘Peachy. Back in a bit.’

Pharaoh slams the door hard enough to make Roisin’s head ring. She grins to herself as she walks to the front door. She’s rather enjoying Roisin’s company. They’ve talked a lot on the journey, both attempting to show the other how well they understand the man who connects them – sharing stories and memories and finding common ground in exasperation. It seems he causes them equal amounts of worry and despair.