They watched in awe and a certain amount of squeamishness on Finch’s part as the men brewed up some strange black liquid in a rusty can, then expertly threw the bullocks to the earth and castrated them – lightning quick – then painted the wound with the black gunge. Finch saw the parts casually discarded in a metal bucket and hoped that was the end of the grisly drama.

But the men then proceeded to roast the bullock balls over the fire on a piece of flattened tin. Finch caught José’s eye, noted his wicked grin, and spent the minutes while the things sizzled away wanting to run. But it was too late. José thrust a plate at him, on which a number of browned balls rolled merrily about.

‘They tasted sort of sweet, a bit gristly. If I didn’t know what they were …’ Finch commented that evening to his friend. They had begged off early, immediately after dinner with Jocelyn and Luis’s American guests, pleading exhaustion, and were now pleasantly drunk, lounging, legs spread, in fold-up chairs outside Finch’s cottage, which sat on the edge of the red-roofed, sprawling ranch house, a half-empty bottle of Malbec on the path by their feet. It was a cold night, but neither felt like going inside.

‘Yeah, made me heave.’ Marty laughed.

‘I’ve eaten sheep’s eyes before,’ Finch boasted. ‘Maybe even sheep’s balls. Same difference.’

There was a long, companionable silence between them. Then Marty spoke, his voice low. ‘So tell me, Rob, what is it you’re running away from?’

Taken aback, Finch didn’t answer at once. The trip, so far, had been everything he’d hoped for: extraordinary new landscape, no one who knew him, and day after day in the saddle – which tired him out so he was asleep almost before he’d taken his boots off. He’d been so grateful not to think. But ‘running away’ seemed a vaguely pejorative term.

Marty was staring at him in the feeble light of the single bulb above the cottage door, those bruised grey eyes considering. ‘You don’t have to tell me, course, but I can see it on you.’ He paused. ‘I recognize it.’

‘Recognize it?’

Marty shrugged. He seemed at ease with himself tonight, away from his doting aunt. Finch thought the wine was probably helping. ‘My wife, Beth, she passed six years ago – a long struggle with her heart.’ He looked enquiringly at Finch, as if he expected a matching confidence, but Finch was dumbstruck. Is he psychic, a bloody mind reader?

‘I’m so sorry about your wife,’ Finch said, rather stiffly, then added, ‘But I’m not running away.’

Marty raised an eyebrow and grinned. ‘You sure about that?’ He reached for his glass and sipped, holding the wine in his mouth for a moment before swallowing as he looked up into the incredibly clear, starry night. ‘Luis told me about your wife.’