I slammed my hand on the wheel, scattering ash. All I wanted was to sit the slippery sod down and growl at him until he told me what he’d got me caught up in. I felt my temper rising: a warm blush on my cheeks and chest. The rain slowed just long enough for me to glimpse a sign pointing left towards Preston. Still bloody miles away. Still no idea what I’d do when I got there.

I realized I was still playing with the lighter. I felt its sleek coldness against my fingertips. Turned it this way and that, wondering whether the man from the train would be cursing me for its theft. Wondering whether it was something dear to him, a gift from a loved one; an object of sentimental attachment.

The lights of the motorway glared through the rain-soaked glass. For the merest fraction of a second, I could make out the inscription on the outside of the lighter. It was barely there, almost worn away by the ministrations of a rough thumb. But holding it up and angling it towards the open window I was able to make out the ghost of the original wording.

Big T, Belize City

Veni, Veni, Veni!

And my memory filled with the scents of still-wet blood, and the screams of the man we sent to his death.

PART TWO

FELICITY

Transcript 0024, recorded December 1, 2016

He started waking up not long after. I don’t know if he were ever really unconscious but once his nursemaid had headed for the door he obviously couldn’t see any reason to keep milking it. He groaned a little bit. Sucked his lips like a baby with a bottle. Put both of his hands to his temples, like he was waking up from one of the drinking sessions that he’d thrown himself into for a while after our lad’s death. When he opened his eyes he had a scared look about him. It took him a moment to get his bearings. I could see confusion all over his pained, bloodied face. I just stayed where I was, still as a statue in the murk of the room, seeing how long it would take him to remember what had been done to us and where the hell we were.

‘There was a lass,’ he said, a slur in his words, looking up at me with heavy, glassy eyes. ‘Warm hands.’

‘Sera,’ I said. ‘She’s Guatemalan.’

He pulled a face, not sure he’d heard. ‘She’s what?’

‘Guatemalan. It’s in Central America, under Mexico. She’s been looking after you. She’s very nice.’

He looked down at the fresh bandages. Pushed a finger into his mouth and probed at his lower denture. ‘Bit my bloody tongue,’ he grumbled, as if it was just one injustice too many. He gave me a quick glance up and down. ‘You all right? You look cold.’