‘Because he nearly fecking murdered ye before he left.’ The smuggler laughed as his eyes wandered to Jay’s bad leg.

‘Time passes,’ said Jay grumpily.

‘Aye, well, just as well, because he’s after seeing you. He’s going to the cottage and the cave in the cliff, where he’ll hide out. Told me to tell you to meet him there.’

The news that McGuffey was looking for him was more welcome than the Donegal smuggler could have known. Jay was desperate for money, and McGuffey had always been a man with a plan. If he wanted to see Jay, there’d be money in it.

McGuffey had been on the run for twenty years, since the day he’d murdered his own wife, Angela. Jay scowled at the memory: if things had turned out as they’d meant to, it would have been him, Jay Maughan, who’d married McGuffey’s daughter, Sarah. But Angela had got in the way, and the girl had escaped and married Michael Malone. There was always a fecking Malone somewhere to ruin things. Jay hawked and spat at the ground in disgust. He hated the Malones a lot worse than he did McGuffey, even though McGuffey was so crazed he’d taken a shot at Jay before he’d scarpered. It was only thanks to Shona that Jay hadn’t lost his leg as a result.

Everyone knew McGuffey had fled across the border and joined the IRA. His hatred of the British consumed him and the IRA would have provided a safe haven for a man with nothing to lose.

‘I’d better get meself over to Tarabeg and see what he wants,’ Jay said as he tied the straps on the tarpaulin.

‘Don’t stand too close. He’s still a man with the wildness in his eyes. He’s older, like the rest of us, and slower in his movements. He’s thin and weak, but not in the head. A horrible wound in his own leg he has just now too – God’s justice, you might say. Someone made a better job of shooting him than he did you. Got himself into trouble in the North, apparently. Upset someone, as he always does. Wouldn’t go to the doctor, though – said he’d fix it himself.’

The smuggler fished out a soft parcel from his bag. ‘He gave me this. Said that before you go to him, you have to let them know he’s back.’ The man leered toothlessly at Jay. ‘I’m guessing you know who he means by “they”, am I right?’

Jay nodded. He knew, all right.

‘He wants to scare the living daylights out of the lot of them and let them know he means business.’

Jay took the packet and peeled away the brown paper. Underneath lay something he recognised but could not place. It was an Arran shawl and for a moment he allowed it to slip through his fingers. Then a frown furrowed his brow. ‘Jesus weep,’ he said.

The smuggler met his eyes and held them. ‘He very likely is,’ he said. ‘You take care of yourself. Just because McGuffey has a reputation, it doesn’t mean you have to do his bidding the moment he clicks his fingers.’