He shook his head. Looked momentarily disappointed in me, as if I were acting in a way that was somehow beneath me. Then he sat back in his seat and reached inside his jacket. He pulled out a packet of cigarettes in a battered yellow packet. Flicked the case with his index finger and deftly removed the unfiltered cigarette that shot out of the top of the packet. He offered it to me and I shook my head. That look again, dissatisfied with me, perhaps momentarily unsure of himself. He seemed to come to a decision. Reached into the packet and pulled out a strip of negatives. He put it on the table in front of me. I glanced down. Fire and forest and pale, dead skin.

He proffered the cigarettes again.

‘You should try them,’ he said, lighting his own with a gold lighter. He gave a little smile; a gold tooth lustrous in his upper row. ‘They’re Guatemalan.’

FELICITY

Transcript 0021, recorded December 1, 2016

I could hear John somewhere nearby, swearing like he worked on the dust cart. I was flat on my back, shivering like a damp dog; no breath in my body and a strange drunken feeling, like I’d had a Bucks Fizz too many at Christmas. I think I’d smacked my head on the ground when I clattered down the stairs. I know my teeth had knocked together at the back. They’d slid right off the gum and there was a nasty chemical taste at the back of my throat.

‘I’ll break your fucking bones … you touch her, you touch me … I’ll bite your eyes out of your head, you dirty fucking …’

Honestly, I felt like apologizing for him, I really did. But the shovel blade was only inches from my face and I didn’t know what the hell had just happened or who had barged into me. I squirmed around, feeling the wet soak up through my overcoat. The blade retreated an inch. I shot a glance upwards into the dark, but I couldn’t make out more than the shape of him. And it was a him, right enough. Big and sort of sporty-looking, with that wide-legged stance that all the confident people have.

‘Don’t you touch her … don’t you … bastard!’

I heard him make the sound that he gives out when something’s proper hurt him. I didn’t give a damn about the spade, I wriggled onto my side and looked around desperately, trying to find my voice, to offer some kind of apology, some explanation, some plea.

He was on his knees. Two big lads were holding him. They were both dressed in the same dark colours as the big man standing over me. One had John’s hand up his back, pushing his head forward. The other stood beside him. He had John’s coat in his hands and was going through the pockets.