Lloyd paused to sweep a hand over his hair, suddenly feeling the need to shower. To scrub his skin clean. He remembered the swirl of pink flushing down the plughole as he’d washed his father’s blood away. But he wasn’t that little boy any more. He’d grown up really fast when his dad died. Overnight, he’d become the man of the house. He decided then, at the age of ten, that he would join the police himself. He’d liked the idea of administering justice. Of being on the right side of the law. He’d seen the relief in his mother’s eyes when she came home from the hospital. Her bruises had healed, but the mental scars from her beatings never really left. Nobody was sorry when they buried that bastard in the ground. When Lloyd’s explanation of events was given, nobody questioned it. You shouldn’t clean your gun when drunk, especially when it was loaded. But his father wasn’t to know about the bullets in the chambers. That’s what he liked about living in a small village. Law enforcement was embedded in the heart of the community. You knew each member of the herd by name. You knew who to watch and what to let slide.

His eyes cut to his wife, who quickly fixed a smile. It took longer to disguise the fear behind her eyes. He wasn’t his father; he’d never hurt her. Not when he was sober . . . not when he was himself. But there was a demon buried deep inside him, and it had one hell of a thirst. He recognised he had issues with alcohol, and he dealt with it. He’d stopped drinking when his blackouts became a problem. But people still needed to be kept in line. The last person who questioned his motives ended up six feet under the ground.

‘Cup of tea?’ Joanne set her bag of sweets aside. ‘I’ve got some nice shortbread biscuits I brought home from work.’ She wrung her hands as her anxiety bit. In this neck of the woods, fear came with sharp teeth.

‘Sure, why not,’ Lloyd replied, laying the silicone cloth to one side. After muting the television, Joanne threw him one last cautionary glance before heading into the kitchen. The tension in the air was palpable. It made him want to start drinking again. He licked the dryness from his lips, almost tasting the sweet, spicy notes of a glass of Jameson’s whiskey as it quenched the fire in his throat. Now their son had grown up and left it was just him and Joanne, and a lifetime of dwelling on the past. He’d never asked Joanne about it directly, but it was obvious that she was haunted by restless ghosts too.