Roisin shakes her head, not wanting to hear it. Not wanting the memories to rise. She scrunches up her eyes, willing the pictures in her brain to catch fire. She’s not fast enough. For a moment she sees them: the farmer, his boys. Sees herself back in that barn, on the country road not far from the site where the Teagues had spent a few quiet days. For a moment, she feels the same burning pain. Feels rough skin against the soft flesh of her wrists and the sudden cold air upon her bare skin. Looks up into dead eyes, flared nostrils; animal grunts of exertion; sweat falling upon her face like rain. Sees him. The police officer. The one who talked to her family like they were worth every bit as much as everybody else. The big man, with the kind eyes and the red cheeks, who’d fumbled over his words and dropped his notebook in the mud outside their caravan door. He was suddenly there, above her, grabbing the bad man and smashing a big, ham-hock fist into the side of his head. Through the haze of her tears, she sees. Remembers. The way he had taken them apart like scarecrows. And then he had picked her up so gently that for a moment she had felt as if she were flying. It was hazy after that: shouts and screams and the glug of petrol and the crackle of fire; her father’s voice, telling him to leave it alone, to go; to put the whole sorry business from his mind. And then his big eyes looking into hers, all sorrow and regret and apology. He’d walked away without looking back. She can see it so clearly that it feels as if she could reach out and wipe the blood and dirt from his ripped shirt. She’s loved the memory of him every day since.

‘You do pick ’em,’ says Eva-Jayne, cheerfully. ‘A Pavee and a copper, eh? Hey, stranger things have happened.’

‘Have they?’ asks Roisin.

Eva-Jayne grins. Gives her a look that twinkles with mischief. Glances at the screen of her mobile phone and sucks her cheek, weighing something up.

‘What are you thinking?’ asks Roisin.

‘About your run of luck. How many years ago was it that it happened? Six? Seven? Maybe we should put our minds to the current problem, eh? The bloody Heldens. God, but these feuds get tiresome. Never used to be like this. The ladies and the babbies were never caught up. It was for the men to deal with. For them to bring in somebody like him. Like bloody Cromwell …’ She crosses herself as she says his name and spits on the rig at her feet. Pretends to smile – to find something to be positive about. ‘Anyway, your father said things would be sorted soon. And we’ve seen no reason to worry, have we? And with you climbing the walls, mooning over your flame-haired Thor from years back, and me having a chance to make a few quid …’