‘Do you recall Orla ever mentioning anything about’ – Mr Huff slitted his eyes – ‘about gold … About a strange, golden dust? About golden … golden souls?’

‘No.’ I shook my head.

‘Ah.’ Mr Huff nodded, sagely.

‘Never,’ I added.

‘Fine.’ Mr Huff waved his hand for me to continue, then winced.

‘Part of the problem between Father Hugh and Kalinda was that whenever he visited the Clearys he would often bring people along with him to see Orla. Sometimes from Ireland, on little pilgrimages. Sometimes just needy individuals from the local parish. And they would ask for her blessing, or for special favours in the name of “Our Lady”, as she called her. And Orla would ask them to make daisy chains and she would hang them over an old picture frame she had with an image of the Pieta glued inside it – Virgin Mary, embracing Jesus, taken down from the cross – which her grandmother had given her; Bran’s mother.’

Mr Huff had closed his eyes. He had leaned the back of his head against the wall.

‘In fact when Bran’s mother visited I had to be especially vigilant,’ I persisted, ‘because she always had a little list which she would present to Orla when no one else was around. Of various people and their problems. Orla had become especially renowned among the Irish Travelling community after curing Sorcha’s sister, then Sorcha’s aunt, then Sorcha herself of a hereditary genetic disorder which meant that most of their babies were all born with, and quickly died from, severe congenital defects. Orla had a special love of what she called “Aboriginal Peoples …”’

I paused to draw breath. Mr Huff had opened his eyes again and was now staring, fixedly, at my chest. I looked down. Was there something …? Uh … No. I quickly looked up again.

‘Did they argue?’ he wondered, frowning, distractedly. ‘Bran and Kalinda I mean?’

‘Dreadfully.’ I nodded. ‘Constantly. Over Orla, mainly. Lonely was an atheist and Bran – I’m not really sure. Sometimes they would have actual, physical fights. She would attack him, really attack him, in a kind of … a blind rage, and he would throw her – she was tiny, absolutely tiny, and stick thin – against the wall or across the bed or on to a sofa. She was always angry with him.’

‘Why was that?’ Mr Huff wondered, almost half to himself, shifting on his cushion, then wincing.

‘Because he was a Catholic. Not practising. But that whole side of things came from him. Although … strangely …’

I frowned.

‘Strangely?’ he echoed.

‘She wasn’t interested in the Catholic faith but she was completely obsessed by Catholic politics. Which always seemed like a strange kind of … well, contradiction, I suppose … But then …’ I frowned again. ‘I always felt as if what everything was really all about with Lonely – underneath that prickly surface – was acceptance. It was like the British state represented something … a kind of patriarchal authority – if that makes any sense – and there was this profound need in her – rooted in her femininity, her culture, her race – to automatically rebel.’