‘You can’t miss it,’ Mal had told her. ‘Fella keeps the lamps on overnight so folk can see his wares. The place is lit up like the end of Margate pier. Wilson is the one you’re meeting. Don’t try walking in the front. Go round the back and knock.’

‘Wilson? What is he, a Scot?’

‘A Welshman.’

‘Well, he’d better know I’m coming.’

‘What d’you want, the kettle on? A tray of sandwiches? Just get there for nine thirty.’

‘What am I supposed to tell him?’

‘Nothing. We’ve already spoken on the phone. I’ve made things nice and simple for you, Joy – I know that’s how you like it. Go inside and hand him what you’ve got. He’ll give you something in return, then you hop back in the car and drive it straight to me. That’s it.’

‘And then what?’

‘Then we’ll see.’

‘We’d best be square. I’m done with all this carry-on.’

‘You’ll do the job right, first. Exactly like I told you.’

‘Yeah, the last time I did that it got me nicked, remember.’

‘Lightning won’t strike twice. You’re older now and wiser.’

If only that were true. She might’ve aged, but all she’d learned in borstal were new ways to make the same mistakes. Here she was again, behind the wheel. Another stolen car. Another lawless errand she was running just to keep him satisfied and tamed. Mal Duggan on her mind from dawn till dusk. Her own needs pushed aside for his. She might as well have scrubbed the gussets of his long johns, too, and combed his beard and emptied out his chamber pot. She might as well have baked him pies and lain with him at night and borne his grubby children. Even if she could be rid of him some day, he’d always be the rot that plagued her bones, the reason she could never see the permanence of things. He’d spoil the goodness of the air when he was six feet under.