She sees a light: the glaring white circle of a mobile phone’s puny torch. Something jerks, out there, among the trees. She glimpses two flashing mirrors – black eyes, the white flash of tail as an animal darts forward, then jerks away.

Roisin chews upon her cheek. Tastes blood; raw liver and iron. A phone, she tells herself. Whoever it is, they’ve got a phone.

Softly, she moves her hands to the side, patting the ground in search of something with which she can protect herself. She can only see one figure: one blobby black silhouette overlaid on the ink-dipped canvas of trees and night. If she moved quickly, if she startled them, if she hit and run.

Another voice, tremulous, imploring: willing her to stay here, to stay safe.

Who would you call, Roisin? Who would you ask for help?

The answer is a fist in her gut. She has kin – distant, half remembered outliers of the Teagues’ great cobwebbed clan. Eva-Jayne had mentioned them, early on in her stay. Had crossed herself, theatrically, as she spoke. Michael and Padua. Half-brothers. She remembers little about them, save the reputation as men to fear. Can just about recall two young men in string ties and loud suits, one fat, one skinny as a stair-rod, drinking orange juice at a family wedding; shy, unblinking, pleased to be invited and afraid to mess it up by being themselves. Her mother had warned her not to talk to them. Padua was bad, according to Mammy. Half mad. Had served time for doing things no man worthy of the name should ever do. He was here because his half-brother doted on him, and because Michael knew enough of the family’s secrets to be afforded the respect of an invitation to the wedding. Mammy had made the same warning in their hasty goodbye. Told her that under no circumstances was she to allow Eva-Jayne to introduce her to the men she referred to as ‘cousins’. Roisin can barely untangle the complex network of familial love knots that make the kin, but here and now, she has nobody else. Eva-Jayne had spoken of a landscape business, felling trees, digging ditches, laying patio. With a phone, she could find them. Could beg for help. Could find a warm place to lay low until she can contact Daddy and tell her that Cromwell came for her, and mutilated the good woman who had offered her sanctuary from the violence wrought by men.

A sudden rasping; a match held up to the drooping tip of a hand-rolled cigarette – the orange flame illuminating a sallow, cadaverous face: deep-set eyes, bristly, pointed chin. She squints. Watches the shapes rearrange themselves. Waterproof clothes, bags over either arm, a collapsible chair clutched in his left hand.

She continues to hold her breath. The fear doesn’t vanish completely, but this is none of the people who seek her. Not the Heldens, not Cromwell, not the police. This is a fisherman, up to no good, out after dark and probably as scared as she is.