Donny went to his overnight bag on the front passenger seat and came back with a clean white shirt, a dry flannel and a pair of his jockey shorts, tossing the lot in to her. He took off his overcoat and threw that in, too. Then he held out his arms in a come on then gesture. His breath was pluming out in the air; it was a cold, cold night. Spring had come, Easter was long over, but the bone-clutching frosts of winter didn’t seem to want to let go, not yet.

Warily Dora handed over the baby, still wrapped in Donny’s travel rug. Angel barely stirred. Nine almost silent and unmoving months in the womb, and even now she was born, Angel was showing definite signs of being a calm, peaceful presence. Dora marvelled at this tiny thing, who already seemed to have her own distinct personality. Patience, calmness, silent endurance – none of those traits had ever been Dora’s. But it was clear that they would be Angel’s.

Donny went and walked around with the baby in his arms. Dora, shuddering against the cold, gritting her teeth to stop them chattering, applied the dripping, freezing flannel to all parts that she could reach. Then she pulled on the shirt, which stuck to her skin. Buttoned it with shaking fingers. She pressed the dry flannel between her legs and yanked on the jockey shorts. Then she pulled on his coat, which was still warm from his body, and felt herself clean, dry, almost comfortable.

Then, feeling anxious, wanting the baby near her, not trusting him with the child, she flung open the door. Donny appeared in the opening.

‘Don’t keep her out there, she’ll freeze to death. At least sit in the front with her, will you? Please? And . . . and I need a comb.’

‘Christ Almighty,’ he said, and went off round the front of the car in the headlights. He opened the driver’s door and slid in awkwardly with the baby, then closed the door behind him. He reached a free hand into his overnight bag and pulled out a comb. He tossed it back to Dora.

‘Better?’ he asked with sarcasm.

Dora groped for the comb which had fallen into the footwell. She dragged it through her hair, which was a faded strawberry shade of pale red now, returning quickly to its natural blonde.

When she’d finished with the comb, she lobbed it back into his overnight bag. ‘Look, give her back to me,’ she said, desperate to get Angel away from him.

He turned in his seat. ‘I told you. I’m not that much of a monster,’ he said, and handed the child back to her mother.

Dora snuggled the baby in against her. Better. She looked at Donny. ‘How far is it to this B & B then?’

‘Not far.’

‘Good. All I want to do now is sleep. And . . . and just try not to think about what’s going to happen next,’ she said shakily.