He was amazed to see that the opening to the cave, after years of not being used, was now completely hidden by hanging vegetation. McGuffey fumbled along the shingle shore, using nothing but his hands to guide him, and then, lifting the tangle of grasses like a curtain, and with a small yelp of pain, crouched and crawled inside. In silence, they moved deep inside, towards the rear wall.

‘You don’t want to be this far in,’ said Jay into the damp air. ‘When it rains heavily, the water pours straight in from the cliff above and this part floods.’

‘You think I don’t know that?’ snapped McGuffey. ‘Do you forget, it was me who used to decide who fished off this coast and where they fished.’

Jay remembered Rory’s drowning; that had been McGuffey’s doing too. He was in the presence of a man who’d murdered who knew how many people since he’d been in the North. But Jay played it cool. Being with McGuffey was a lot less frightening than facing the ghost of Angela or her Sarah. He couldn’t imagine even a dead woman wanting to trespass into the far reaches of this dank, dark cave.

McGuffey lit a candle in a lantern on the rock, taken from his own rucksack. His time in the IRA had taught him how to survive out on the land. ‘Give me the food,’ he said. He grimaced as he bent down and grabbed his thigh.

‘How did you get hurt?’

McGuffey refused to answer as, with what was left of his teeth, he ripped into the slice of bacon joint. With each bite, his humour was restored, little by little. Finally, he collapsed onto the sandy patch he had made his bed, the lantern beside him in case the pain kept him down for the night; it often came on without warning.

Jay perched on a rock ledge. The cave was warmer than he’d imagined it would be at night and was surprisingly dry underfoot. There’d been high winds but little rain in the west for weeks.

‘Did you get the parcel from the smuggler?’ McGuffey asked.

‘I did.’

‘Did you do exactly as I instructed with the shawl? Have you left it where it’ll put the fear of God into them? They’ll know I mean business when the time comes.’

‘How else do you think I got the meat? What was the point of that shawl – do you want them to know you’re back?’

McGuffey gave a sneering laugh. The effort of it creased his face. ‘I want them to know I’m a free man. None of them will sleep well in their beds tonight and they will never find me here. Where’s everyone gone? The place is deserted, most of the cottages are empty.’ And then, with a hint of impatience, ‘I need money.’

Jay nodded thoughtfully. ‘How about, “Thank you for the food and drink, Jay, and how are ye, by the way? Did you hurt yourself on the way down?”’ He smirked. McGuffey no longer frightened him as much as he once had. Jay was a good ten years younger and whereas before, he’d been the worse for wear, living on the road as he did, it was now McGuffey who was showing his age. The Donegal smuggler had been generous in his analysis. ‘Jesus, you look a hundred,’ Jay said. ‘What do they make you do in the IRA – drink vinegar? And why are ye on the run? Who did ye fall out with?’