The video was jerky, fragmented: a symphony of roars and ugly curses; hard hands striking flesh, splashing blood, breaking bones.

Her cousin, Ruareigh: lean, muscular; his torso a William Morris of elaborate ink; his head shaved down to nothing and a ship’s compass inked upon his scalp, the points of east and west encroaching into his bristly beard.

His opponent, a great bouncy castle of a man: blue singlet, grey joggers, a gut that looked like he was trying to steal a bass drum. He chewed on a cigar as they brawled; as they traded punches, grabble and broke, swung and scrapped, for almost two hours.

In the end, it was Ruareigh who had his hand raised: his opponent, Michael ‘Blip’ Helden, unable to lift his arms to defend himself; his lips swollen, bee-stung, who mumbled to the ‘fair play’ man that he’d had enough. Ruareigh was too exhausted to raise his hands in celebration. He was there alone, on the halting site in the Kent countryside: his clan, his supporters, half an hour away in the car park of a chain hotel. He’d gone into enemy territory alone, convinced that he’d be treated fairly, that the code would be adhered to. He offered Blip his hand. Told the bigger man he’d fought well; that he’d nothing to be ashamed of. And Blip hit him in the face with such power that Ruareigh was unconscious before he hit the floor. His supporters, peering through a chain-link fence, roared their approval. They declared their man the winner. Blip has beaten the best of the Teagues, and secured the eighty-thousand-pound purse.

Ruareigh was dumped at a roadside, half dead. The injuries he suffered were life-altering. Eight weeks on and he can barely remember his own name, needs two sticks to walk. The Teagues had been willing to accept the Heldens’ version of events. Then they saw the video. Somebody had filmed the whole bout: grainy footage, captured through a chain-link fence, showing their beaten man having his hand raised, then falling victim to a sucker punch. Papa Teague half lost his mind. He ordered the boys to go to the Carrowbrowne halting site on the outskirts of Galway and to drag every Helden from their bed. He demanded vengeance. And when the boys could find none of the Heldens’ men, he settled for torching the caravan that belonged to one of the older members of the family. The Heldens hit back. Shootings, bombings, abductions; pitched battles down pitted country tracks …

Roisin chews her cheek as she thinks upon the endless cycle of threat and counter-threat; slight and rebuttal; the violence upon violence, that has been the background music of her life. She cannot remember a time when some member of her family has not been in training for the latest ‘straightener’ against a member of their rival clan. Cannot think of a single time when their menfolk have not been healing from the vicious wounds suffered at the last clash. She thinks of Daddy. Of Papa Teague. Sees him on the steps of the caravan: porkpie hat, dark hair; gold bracelets; his rings lined up like bullets on his knee. Sees him now: bare, hairy arms, a waistcoat open over a hairy barrel stomach; his Pancho Villa moustache framing lips that chew upon a cigarette. He’s got his hands in a Tupperware box full of petrol, soaking them in the stinking, astringent liquid until the skin turns hard as rock. He sees her looking. Gives her that little smile of his – the one that says he understands her; that this is all a bit silly but he doesn’t have a lot of choice. Gives her the smile that says: this life isn’t for you. And she lowers her head, and returns to her notebook, and writes another letter to Aector about how she wishes everything were different, even without knowing what ‘different’ might be.