I helped bror to dress. He burst into tears when the sleeve had 105to go on. His neck was covered in red stripes and marks from father’s fingers and the dogchain.

Chain a child. Shoot a puppy. I hated my parents. My hatred was so strong and vital it made me hallucinate. I had visions of their heads floating away in the biblical deluge mother frightened us with. In the vision bror and I and the animals were in a boat rowing past them and waving with hoofs and hands.

We went down to the byre. Father was with the calves. He hardly even glanced at us. Didn’t ask about bror’s shoulder. That would’ve been to admit what he had done.

I went to see the horse. Told him the time had come. Time to save my brother and the rest of us. Limerick’s warm breath through his silky muzzle blew courage into me. He nickered quietly and scraped the floor with a hoof.

Then I went to the cows. Whispered into their big ears that soon they wouldn’t be kicked by blackrubber boots anymore. In response their long tongues licked me lovingly. The pigs rubbed their bristly bodies against me.

Girl what’s that you’re doing. Just coddling the beasts. Get the milking machine.

Bror was clearing muck with one arm. Everyone else in the byre was feeling religious.

I lifted the milking machine out from the parlour got the cow-teats ready and put the suction cups on. The peaceful rhythmic sounds of the wheezing vacuum pumps calmed the animals.

The hayfork stood where I had left it next to the last of the cow stalls.

I looked after each cow in turn easing the swollen udders. Watched as the milk churns filled. Carried the full churns into 106the milking parlour. Poured the contents into the separator and fetched new churns.

When I had finished milking the last of the cows I lingered with her. Spread some straw and scratched her back.

I knew father would turn up soon. He could sense when we were being idle. The moment he turned the corner of the stall I grabbed the hayfork and rammed it into his belly. I was a feeble little prematurely born thirteenyearold. All the same the tines slid easily through his farmer’s overalls and deep into his innards.

The byre exploded into a cacophony. Mooing neighing oinking all around father as he went down on his knees in the pissgutter before collapsing with the hayfork embedded in his sour flesh.

Serves you right I said. You shouldn’t ever have been allowed to live.

By now he too was mooing. Howling for his mummy. It was the sound made by wounded elks and tormented dogs. The anguished sound made by creatures fearing death. I shouldn’t ever have saved you from the sea was the last thing he said.

Then his eyes rolled and disappeared.