Into the car park now. Mercedes, Lexus, Audi, parked side by side or nose to nose, raindrops glinting on expensive metal.

Lights flash, at the furthest recess of the car park. She runs towards them. Feels her breath trip in her throat as she sees them. Michael and Padua. Sitting in the front of the blue van, still as cardboard cut-outs.

She hadn’t been sure they’d come. Michael had told her they had been hoping to hear from her sooner. Made no mention of whether he knew about the murder of their shared kin. Just told her to head for the posh hotel on the roundabout. They’d be there soon.

A door slides open. Roisin’s breath comes in short, static bursts. She’s frozen all the way through. Doesn’t know whether she’s safe here, with the men who her family told her to avoid, or should take her chances in the woods. But she needs food. Needs to find a way to contact her father. And the van offers something close to warmth and shelter.

‘Roisin Teague, as I live and breathe. Will you look at yourself, dripping like a poacher’s pocket, so you are. Come in, girl. We’ve towels. Got the blowers on …’

A welcoming voice, accent scarcely credible: a mix of Johnny Cash and Daniel O’Donnell, and neither imitation any good. She looks into gold teeth and bright eyes and sees a whole wall of used cigarette packets lining the lower half of the windscreen. Beside him, smaller, rounder, balder, baby-faced, denim jacket over white T-shirt and a silver steer pendant on a string.

She runs to the passenger side, and takes the hand of the younger, smaller man. Padua. His palm is cold and clammy – a dead fish between her fingers. He yanks her upwards and into a space that stinks of Lucky strike cigarettes, fried food and dead animals. Makes space for her on the torn leather. Fixes his eyes on the floor.

In the driver’s seat, his brother Michael, all smiles and twinkle. Big curly head of hair and a line across the bridge of his nose where the doctors removed a splinter of crushed cartilage. He’s wearing a suede jacket, with tassels. In the footwell, his red leather boots catch the light.

‘Padua, say howdy to your cousin …’

Padua mumbles something she can’t decipher. Shoves up towards his brother and makes room for her.

‘Towel, Padua …’

The other man does as he is bid. Reaches behind him and pulls out a dry, rough towel, a Thermos of coffee and a big padded lumberjack shirt.

‘Thank you,’ says Roisin, her voice weak. ‘Honestly, I didn’t know if you’d come, whether you’d even know who I was …’

She unscrews the lid of the Thermos. Pours hot coffee into the plastic cup and takes a swig, enjoying the scald to her lips and tongue. Drains it and takes another. She can barely taste it but she relishes the sweetness. Can even stomach that bitter, chemical tang which lingers even after she’s swallowed down three cupfulls.