‘I was brought up on fresh red meat, orange juice and sunshine,’ Joe told them by way of explanation, laughing as the men raised on thin stew, potatoes and rain stood back in amazement to see him slicing though the peat.

‘What do you miss about America, Joe?’ Seamus asked him one time as they worked.

Joe, who had taken to wearing a cap in order to fit in and had long since dispensed with the haircut that had announced he’d once been a marine, stabbed his spade into the earth, pushed back his cap and leant on the handle, taking a moment to think. ‘Soda and hamburgers,’ he said as his fringe flopped over his eyes. Then he pulled the spade back out of the soil as though it were the weight of a feather and continued digging.

They were none the wiser. ‘That soda must be mighty powerful,’ Seamus said, and Joe chuckled to himself as he cleaved away another slice of earth and wiped the rain from his dripping brow.

No one had discussed the fortune hidden behind the bricks in the fireplace wall since Daedio had died. It was Joe’s inheritance by rights, sent over in secret from America long ago by Joe’s great-great-granddaddy, but Joe had been keen to put Daedio’s mind at rest. ‘The money may have been sent here for safe-keeping,’ he’d said, ‘but I can tell you, Daedio, with what remained in America, I am a rich man. How much money does one man need? I have more than I can shake a stick at.’

And with that it had been decided, with Bridget in attendance, that they would know when the day came to put it to use. Bridget’s spirit guide was Daedio’s late wife, Annie, and she gave her assurance that this was the right thing to do. Until that day, the money would remain exactly where it was. It had never been mentioned again.

*

Jay Maughan hadn’t been back to Tarabeg in the two years since Shona’s passing. Without the protection of his gypsy grandmother’s curses, he was too afraid to return. He lived as a fugitive, in the shadows, hiding away from honest, hard-working people, their priests and all that contributed to the fabric of society in the villages he roamed. So he was surprised when one of his old wartime contacts, a smuggler from Donegal, had news for him in a village many miles south of Tarabeg.

‘He’s back,’ the smuggler announced enigmatically and out of the blue, looking Jay full in the face to note his reaction.

Jay knew instantly who he was talking about. Kevin McGuffey. But he kept his counsel, waiting for further explanation.

‘You don’t seem too bothered.’ The smuggler handed him a case with the goods Jay was unable to buy in a shop himself. Fewer and fewer places would serve the likes of him these days.

He paid for the box of food with bits and pieces he’d stolen along the way. ‘Why would I be worried?’ he asked as he stored the case in the back of the caravan.