“Do you know that the island of Pitcairn in the South Pacific, has not more than two mutton shunters?” Francisco broke the silence as he mopped up a film of river spray from his face with the sleeve of his black coat, his white vest flashing high necked in the darkness. His otherwise forceful voice was subdued. Worry sat around the corners of his mouth. “And they are known to be encouraged by a small fine to look the other way if they received a complaint after a ding-dong such as this?” Francisco said out loud, all the while he thought: “This bundobust could very well destroy me.”