May-Anne lowered the needle onto the record and Carole King’s voice broke the static silence in the trailer: ‘All you have to do is touch my hand, to show me you understand, and something happens to me, that’s some kind of wonderful.’

‘Turn that shit off,’ John said.

He was sitting at the table beside her and his broad shoulders rose and fell in the way that told May-Anne he could lash out like the devil or sob like a baby.

As she lit a cigarette, the lighter flame flashed in the cracked mirror above the sink and she saw that she was crying. Hell, the tears always came with the fourth drink, but a third was never enough.

‘Go smoke outside,’ John said.

‘It’s pissin’, knucklehead.’

‘You wanna burn us to death?’

Meeting his eye, she took a drag of her cigarette. ‘Why not?’

‘You’re a crazy bitch.’

‘John McMahon, I ain’t yours to talk to like that no more. You made that a hella clear tonight.’

She raised her left hand and wiggled her fingers: no wedding ring. Still.

When the song finished, she lifted the stylus to start it again.

John gripped her wrist. ‘You dare, May-Anne.’

He stood and pressed her against the side of the trailer. She winced, waiting for the blow. Waiting.

His lips were dry against hers and May-Anne struggled obligingly for just a moment.

‘Damn, John,’ she muttered. ‘I hate lovin’ you.’

But hell, after these fights it was always worth it.