I had seen evidence of it (the chink) throughout our conversation. Vague glimmers of it. As if someone was shining a small torch on to her chest. It had been dancing around her chest. Yes. The way a magnifying glass (remember the magnifying glass from a little earlier? A complete lie, I’m afraid) … the way a magnifying glass refracts the light of the sun and then burns a small hole. On a little patch of dry grass. On a leaf. On the back of some poor boy’s neck in class, sitting at the desk in front …

Ow! Ow! What was that?

(Bursts into gales of noisy tears.)

But to begin with the hand that held this glass (and who knows whose hand that was?) shook slightly. It took a while to steady. To steady itself and then focus. Intently. On the centre of her chest.

The strange thing was (and there are many strange things, I accept that – I openly accept that – but this is the main one, I suppose, from my perspective, at least) was that her words were inconsequential. The story was insignificant. Did Kalinda really plant that bomb? Was Bran innocent? Did Orla know? It was all simply irrelevant. Because, and I’ve described this before but, at the risk of being repetitive (like Miss Hahn was – in Chapter 50 – and I’m sure she won’t resent my saying this, because I say it out of love, principally) … at the risk of being repetitive, I’ll do so again (mention that thing again): time – ‘time’ – became like … as if strands of time were like pieces of … of wool (say), in different colours, all running together. Being knitted, into a giant for ever sock (or sweater – no. Better a sock. This tubular shape which turns … changes direction, flowers, and then feeds into itself again). And the echo. Let’s not forget the echo. That extraordinary echo, informing it all. Darting in and out of the weave, drawing together, conjoining …

It didn’t matter (the story. Sorry about that). Or if it did, then it mattered a-great-deal-of-not-at-all.

Either way, the light began to shine more and still more brightly. Miss Hahn seemed oblivious. With Miss Hahn it’s all about the story – the pain of revealing, of re-telling – but to the rest of us (me, the souls, Mrs Meadows, who had arrived at the bottom of the porch moments earlier) it was all about the light. How it scorched. How it swung about, dangerously, as she moved (still yammering on, I’m afraid; still justifying, still doubting, still torturing herself – and for what? For nothing! Absolutely nothing!). Yet for us (like I said) it was all about the light. And I needed to avoid it. This savage love. And Mrs Meadows ducked when Miss Hahn – might I call her Carla? Darling Carla? – half turned towards her. But the souls? So many of them! A sea of them! A wall of them! They swooned towards it. And as it touched them it melted them. Back into a golden dust. And the dust was drawn towards the light and the light was strengthened by it. And soon all the souls were magnetized by the few that had been drawn, and then, with a huge sigh of relief – of ecstasy – they entered the heart of Miss Hahn and they were finally assuaged. They found their rest there.