‘He was a monster,’ said Lilah, over and over. ‘He just appeared. And then he was squeezing Fin’s throat with his stick, and I screamed, and tried to help, to fight him, but he pushed me down, and then his weight was on me and it all just went dark. And I woke up, like this. With this … what’s he done, Mammy, where did he take Fin … where was Daddy – I screamed for him, and nobody came, nobody came …’

Roisin pressed her forehead to her daughter’s as she slid her palm free of the nail. There was little blood. The pain was hot and intense, but the nail had passed between the tendons and caused no obvious damage. Roisin cleaned the wound. Dressed it. Wrapped a bandage around her palm and thumb. Checked her for other injuries. She complained of a sore throat; an ache at the back of her neck. A tingle in her fingers.

Only when her daughter’s wounds were tended did she allow herself to go to pieces. Her son, her firstborn, her little prince. A bad man had come for him. Cromwell. The very devil. A man she thought was dead, and who had come for her boy because he was blood of the clan who had exacted such a terrible penance for his sins.

She and Lilah had run back to the scene. Scrabbled through the pile of leaves and dirt. Held one another, sobbing and desperate. Neither had spoken of calling the police. Both had known that an evil had entered their lives. Fin had been gathered up by something grotesque. He would be found, of that both were certain. But not before the spilling of blood.

McAvoy had pulled up just as they arrived home. White-faced, glaring through a haze of tears, he listened as his wife and daughter told him everything. Tears had tumbled down his cheeks as he looked at the wound on Lilah’s palm. Something had died inside him as Roisin held his hands and looked up at him imploringly, her palms together as if in prayer, begging him to believe her. She’d known he was alive. She’d known he was free. She’d known they were at risk. And she hadn’t told him, for fear of his thinking terrible things about her. And now Fin was missing, and another woman was dead, and it was all her fault, all her fucking fault …

McAvoy sits in the shelter of the little fishing boat, and thinks of his son. This is their favourite spot. Neither of them knows who the little vessel belongs to, but it’s got a jolly look about it and they like climbing inside and pretending to be adventurers or pirates or spies.

Unthinking, McAvoy reaches out and rubs his hand against the peeling paint. Whispers, softly. It’s not a prayer, not even a wish – it’s an offer, made to whichever force or deity might care to listen.

Keep him safe. Keep him safe and you can have me. Whatever you want, I’ll do. But protect him. Please …