‘HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU?!’ I spun around, incensed. ‘THERE’S NO ASBESTOS IN THE COTTAGE, MR TYLER! NOT A TRACE OF IT! NONE!’

The golden people all covered their ears and screamed, en masse. This scream (a kind of primordial howl) was like the whistle of a steam train, or the tortured keening of the north wind. I gasped, staggering, clutching frantically at my own ears, nearly losing my balance …

‘Get a grip on yourself, Mr Huff!’ Miss Hahn snapped. ‘Here …’ She grabbed the knitting, shoved it into the pocket of her cardigan, slid her arm around my waist, then asked Mr Tyler to kindly help her support me over to the back balcony (which he did), where I was gently rested, with due ceremony, perched atop two cushions, on the bench.

‘Would you mind taking a message to the car for us, Mr Tyler?’ Miss Hahn then asked, very politely. ‘Just …’ – she frowned – ‘just say that Mr Huff has been temporarily caught up in something, but it’s nothing important …’ (she stressed), ‘and he’ll be back down with them shortly.’

Mr Tyler nodded (was that a suggestion of a smirk?!) and headed off.

‘I have a confession to make, Mr Huff …’ Miss Hahn sat down beside me on the bench. We then stared out to sea together for what felt like a long while, in complete – almost blissful – silence. This is good, I thought. Silence suits us. Miss Hahn and I should always make a concerted effort to be quiet while in each other’s company.

A further added (although not completely unforeseen) bonus was that if I sat still – very still, in silence – then I could almost eradicate … almost, almost … but not … not quite … No. Not entirely …

‘It was me,’ Miss Hahn suddenly murmured, ‘I killed Orla Nor Cleary, Mr Huff. My beautiful, darling Orla. Sweet light of the world. I killed her.’

Then she tapped an accusing finger against her guilty chest as the golden shadows – springing, once again, into sharper focus – slowly began to prowl around us.

50

Miss Carla Hahn

Such a relief to finally have it out there. Even though I had already offered it up. Such a relief to finally get it off my chest. To make a clean breast of it, at last – at long last – and confess.

I slowly pulled myself to my feet, stepped forward and then turned to face Mr Huff. I needed to look him in the eyes. Only then, I sensed, would reparation truly be made. Because this wasn’t about God’s forgiveness (I already had that. In abundance. God always forgave if you asked him to; wasn’t he the All-Merciful, the All-Compassionate?). No, this wasn’t about forgiveness. This was about pain. Pain. About tearing down the shutters. Letting in the light. Because the more something was pricked and teased, the more violently it baulked and convulsed, the more pitifully it … it writhed and shuddered, the more richly, fully and intensely it lived.