These memories, and more, flicker through the mind of Padua McAteer, as the van bumps over the potholed, rain-filled track and swings through the great leering mouth of a carnival sign: mad clown eyes and svelte disco girls peering down from the endless process of wagon walls and sunken carnival rides. A snarl of trees has enveloped some of the older specimens in the yard and to approach the area they think of as ‘home’ they have to pass a long stretch of overgrown wilderness dotted with curiosities. Padua sees the gleam of the red metal blood pressure machine peeking out from behind a tree; multicoloured arcade games laid out like a stone circle, toppled and tangled up with ivy and wire; a hulk of gaudily-patterned riverboat; an ironmonger’s cart wedged up against one side; milk churns and metal bathtubs hanging from the bare branches of the trees that reach out like claws.

‘He could be here,’ says Padua, quietly, jerking left then right as the van bounces over the potholes. ‘We should have a dog.’

‘I hate dogs,’ says Michael, holding his cigarette butt between his teeth. He glances sidelong at his brother, then at the unconscious form of Roisin Teague. Padua feels something a little like regret take his face in its grasp, but he shakes it away and replaces it with a grin. ‘Don’t need a dog, do I, boyo? Got a little terrier by my side.’

Padua looks down at the floor. He’s never been much of a talker. Always been shy. Michael looks after him. Takes care of him. Accepts him for who he is. He owes Michael, and if Michael believes this is the right way to do things, he won’t raise any objections. He’ll keep his worries to himself. Will deal with his own guilty conscience somewhere down the line.

‘Any luck, she’ll sleep til morning,’ says Michael, leaning across and considering the girl. She’s breathing OK, but she keeps jerking in her sleep, as if something is trying to hurt her in the world behind her closed eyelids. Padua sympathizes. He has always suffered from bad dreams. Most nights he sleeps with his brother, curled up behind him on the stinking mattress in the old bowtop wagon behind the mound of discarded bumper cars. If Michael thinks there is anything strange in it, he doesn’t say so. As far as Padua can tell, his love is genuine. Pure, even. He wishes the world were different, even as he prospers from the ghastly way it is.

They come to a halt in a patch of cleared ground: oil barrels full of rainwater and cold ash marking a vague circle. Inside, two sodden armchairs, grass growing from their waterlogged covers. There are smashed glass bottles and empty tins discarded in a great pile to the left of a patch of black earth where the tea-kettle hangs on an iron spit. The brothers like to sit here, of an evening. They like to play with air rifles. Shoot at bottles and lights and cans. If they are lucky, a rat will scuttle past. Padua is the best at catching them. It’s Michael who comes up with the ideas as to what to do next.