‘Ah, mate,’ Matty said. Put a hand on the cold leather of the front seat, and looked at the long seat in the back.

There was a tiny shard of glass caught in the flooring and a dark blot of blood that might be mistaken for mud.

Matty left the garage door open, went back for a cloth and warm water.

The phone rang. Matty picked up, in case it was the cab driver.

It was Brigid’s aunt in Cork. Matty took the message, found another bit of paper to write on. Ripped up the first note to Brigid and wrote a better one, more conciliatory. More grateful.

The rumble of a car engine. She’d returned already, maybe for another round. It would be fair enough.

Back outside.

Cormac was in front of the garage, looking in.

Matty went numb.

He glanced round, and back at the van. ‘Is that – yours?’

Matty looked down at the tufts of grass leading into the garage. Looked back.

He held out the photo of Joe, his expression uncertain. ‘I got it photocopied. So you can have it back.’ He turned back to study Shifty again, his whole body still. ‘So that’s your van?’ You could hear his mind ticking. ‘What day did you come here again?’

‘I can’t remember.’ Make it earlier. ‘Twenty-fifth.’ Too early, probably, for the injuries to be how they’d looked.

His eyes moved to Matty. Cheek. Ribs. ‘Oh, sweet Jesus,’ he said, his shoulders dropping.

The sudden awareness of the smell of the neighbours’ peat fires, and the clouds moving fast.

He put his chin to his chest, a brief stillness, before he seemed to nod to himself. ‘I need you to come in.’ There was no shock in his voice, no disgust.

Matty swallowed, looked towards the back door.

He registered it. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Come in. To the station.’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘I can’t.’

‘You don’t have to say anything,’ he said, and for a moment Matty thought it was all right. That he’d let it go. Pretend he hadn’t seen it. He took a step closer. ‘I am charging you with …’ his lips came together and he sighed. ‘Attempted murder. You don’t have to say anything. Unless you wish to do so.’

‘Don’t.’

‘But whatever you say—’ The words were bleached, characterless.

‘Don’t. Please. I can’t.’ Prison. A women’s prison. ‘Please.’

Cormac began to say something, stopped. He glanced towards his car and walked over to it, his eyes remaining fixed on Matty.

Drive away. Drive me away, Matty thought. Take me somewhere else.

He opened the driver’s door, his back against the car, and reached towards the glove compartment. A glimpse of silver. ‘May be taken down in writing and given in evidence.’ He looked down at the handcuffs. ‘You have to get in the car now.’

Head-shake.