Michael grins, watching as she towels her hair and wriggles herself through the sleeves of the quilted jacket. Her damp top rides up, exposing the jewel in her belly button and a stretch of smooth, tanned skin.

Padua takes a packet of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. Lights one, then hands it to Roisin. She hesitates, then takes, it, gratefully. Sucks the smoke into her lungs and feels the warmth of it. Her limbs feel heavy, suddenly. There’s a delicious warmth to the air, swaddling her, bringing in a soft darkness at the edges of her vision. She shakes her head. Sees Michael grinning at her. Tries to return it and can’t seem to make her mouth work. Her lips seem to tingle, as though she’s been smacked in the mouth. She can hear something, close up and far away, a high ringing, like metal wire pulled tight and plucked with a nail.

‘Eyes down, Padua,’ intones Michael, firmly. He gives a nod, his eyes on hers. ‘And don’t you be worrying, girl. We’ve already spoken to your father. Fair worried, so he is, though a hard knacker like him wouldn’t let himself show it. We’ve to get you somewhere safe and cosy while he takes care of things. You’ll take my condolences, I hope. Never had much to do with her, your Eva-Jayne, but she had a few drops of our blood and we’ve got some of hers, or so I’m told. And the bastard will pay for what he’s done to ours. Blood’s blood, yeah. We’re not Pavee, not Traveller, you knows that. But we’re the next best thing. You’re safe. Right hand to God, you’re safe.’

Roisin gives the faintest of nods. ‘Thank you …’ she begins.

Mikey stamps on the accelerator as if trying to kill a venomous spider, and they lurch forward in a spray of dirty rain. The radio roars into life.

‘Oh you’ll fucking love this one,’ shouts Mikey, eyes wide, gold teeth glinting in his smile. ‘Live from Folsom Prison. Oh to have been there, eh, Padua?’

The man beside her keeps his eyes on the floor. His big hand, bristled with arachnoid black hairs, clutches at the material of his trousers, scoring grooves in the dirty denim. He’s fighting with himself. Fighting with something he doesn’t ever want to let out again.

Roisin wraps herself in the damp towel. Tucks a fold of her huge shirt between her head and the window. She’s exhausted: bone-weary. She can’t think straight. Can’t remember where they said they were taking her, or how Daddy is going to find her. Her tongue feels too big for her mouth: thick, furred. Helpless, she gives in. Closes her eyes and drifts into a fitful sleep: diesel and dog hair in her nostrils; peacock feathers and dirty snow in her dreams.

When he’s sure she’s asleep, Padua raises his head. Looks at her profile, the slender angles of her jawline, the elegant narrowness of her neck.

‘Padua …’