‘And it’s best not to wear anything too restrictive around them,’ Brigid said, with the swiftest of glances at the sports bras, tangled together on the floor. Matty looked just as swiftly at the wall. ‘You’ll need to take some deep breaths, even if they hurt.’

‘OK.’ Inhale. It hurt.

She smiled. ‘Call me if you need anything. I might put my head down for a bit, but don’t worry about waking me.’ It was only then that Matty realised that Brigid must have been up all night.

Matty couldn’t sleep any more, listening instead to the wind’s odd, shepherd-like whistle as it caught somewhere underneath the roof. The cough kept coming, rough and doggish, more phlegm spat into the mug. Infinitely painful each time, as if things inside there were jarring out of position.

He’d driven away. He’d limped to the car holding his side, his face gashed, arm bleeding profusely, and driven away. It wasn’t as bad as it had looked.

Maybe the police were already out there. He could have said anything, that it had been a hook-up and the crazy whore had turned on him. Or he and his friend were turning down every road, and Matty had no idea where this house was.

Up. Each movement took intense willpower. Legs, swivelling. Feet on the floor. It was almost too much to stand.

The view from the window was of a side garden, a long washing line strung from the wall of the house to a low-leaning wooden post, the pegs rattling. You could just see the white front gate and flower beds, colourful for this time of year, and that the outside of the house was painted a deep teal colour. The road was quiet, roofs of bungalows further off. You couldn’t see any garage from here.

There were no stairs. Another bungalow. Matty walked carefully down the hall, legs not fully stable, good arm wrapped around the aching ribs. The carpet was soft underneath bare feet. There were framed pictures on the walls, some pencil sketches of nude figures, a primitive painting of duck-like creatures, something else that might have been Indian. Family photos, too – an older couple and a tall, dark-haired man.

The living room was empty. The kitchen, too. She must still be asleep.

A large book was open on the kitchen counter – a diagram of a ribcage, finely jagged cracks in the bones on one side. The bile rose. Matty turned the page. Don’t smoke. Ten slow breaths every hour. Broken or bruised ribs heal within 3–6 weeks.

You could see outside a bit better from here. Matty carefully leant over the sink, not using either hand, and looked out, but it was just a road, an Irish road. Maybe it was a Northern Irish road. How would you know the difference?