They booked into a bed-and-breakfast a few mile out the road in Corrloch. From her window there Maisie Adams saw that a large cut-stone house opposite was for sale. She was intrigued to hear from their landlady that the price of the property was only £1,200. Next morning, despite her husband’s entreaties, Maisie arranged a viewing of the house with the auctioneer.

“The lighthouse men lived here,” he explained, “They’re known locally as The Dwellings.”

“Such huge rooms,” said Maisie.

“This one is mine,” said Sara.

But Jonathan Adams, treating the whole affair as foolishness, kept up only a desultory conversation with the auctioneer. And as the man pointed out what came with the property the Sergeant merely nodded, not wanting to enter into any false dealings. Yes, it was a fine house, he agreed, indeed it had a wonderful view. This being as far as manners and prudence would allow.

Afterwards, Jonathan Adams went down to the hotel in Belmullet for a coffee. They served him in the bar where he sat uncomfortably among the drinkers. First the Angelus rang out, then came the news from RTE on the black-and-white TV. The Sergeant took no notice till he heard sounds and names that gradually grew familiar. He looked up with terror and saw they were re-running an account of the march. This came as a shock to Jonathan Adams. He had seen no TV men there, nor was he used to them. It showed the Catholics gathering in Duke Street. Then the chaotic start of the march. The shouts for the police to give way were raised. With great religious zeal the Catholics called to the policemen. Within seconds a protester was being batoned. What happened next was seen by Jonathan Adams with blinding clarity. To the left of the picture could be seen a grey-haired policeman, hatless, chasing after a youth. When he lost him among the other marchers, he turned and batoned a middle-aged man who was already pouring blood.

The crowd in the bar shouted “bastards”.

On the TV the old policeman had found his hat. As he put it on, he looked round for someone else to hit. Seeing no one he turned back and hit the screaming man again. A woman crouched low as she pulled her man away. The old policeman charged past the camera. Then, wild-eyed and wielding a baton, he stared remorselessly straight at the lens. Jonathan Adams had become a witness to himself. He saw the mad look of fury in his own eye. He looked round the bar but no one was taking any notice of him. His chin began shaking. Then he shook uncontrollably.

“Bastards,” said someone.

Jonathan Adams slipped away.