And through that hornet sting on the back of my neck which suddenly, miraculously … (How I despise that word! If I could just get rid of that word – expunge it from the face of the earth – zap! – once and for all – then maybe I might finally be able to …? Oh I don’t know.)

And Clifford? Poor, poor Clifford! Remember? Clifford’s strange rantings? His furious conversations with the blue sky and the clouds? Dear Clifford, normally so sane, so calm, so rational, so reliable, suddenly – unexpectedly – reduced to … to …? To that?

And finally (last, but by no means least), the death and then the re-death of stupid, lumpen old Rogue. Who will be mourned (well, a little. Although he was a very … a terribly inconvenient animal. And too fat. Greedy. Over-indulged. Mr Huff was right. It was cruel. But Tatteh always seems to feel compelled to … to overfeed his animals. Ever since Mame died, I suppose. He kills with kindness – at least I think it’s kindness. I don’t honestly know why. I’m constantly telling him not to. And if I did – know, I mean – I’m sure I wouldn’t like what I … I’m sure it would probably be completely my … you know … fault. Same as it always is).

She was sending me a message. Surely? Orla. Saint of the Kitchen Scraps (isn’t that what Sorcha had called her? What a curious turn of phrase that woman has!). Because if she’s the Saint of … then doesn’t that make me – by extension – you know … just … just compost? A pathetic little leftover? Something cut away – too bruised, too tough, too mouldy to be considered worthy of the main table? Refuse (refuse-d). An off-cut. But still, curiously, somehow, still cherished at some level? Part of a little pile? My pile. Our pile. The rejected. The unwanted. Hers. Her pile. Still here. Still included. By … by her? The Tiny-Armed Saint of God’s Compost Heap (okay, I’m not nearly so good at this as Sorcha is. I accept that)? Because there’s still life on the heap. Not … not anything to get too … you know, worked-up about, but still … yes … still life. A second-rate kind of life. Life on a shoestring. Cut-price life. No frills. And tiny. Microscopic. Infinitesimal. Virtually invisible to the naked eye.

But there’s still … still life. Of a sort. And heat (a tiny glow). And hope.

Orla. Saint of the Kitchen Scraps. Saint on-a-budget. Our Saint.

But the message (that message? Her message)? It was the same message (surely?) being sent over and over and over (she was hammering her point home. Because that was what Orla did. That was her faith. She’d just keep on and on and on, regardless. In spite of everything. She’d always persist. Always. Until she stopped persisting. Until she stopped existing. Until, well, until she died. And then she was … then she was dead).