He tiptoes to his sack, swatting flies from his cheeks and eyes as he moves. He slings the sack over his shoulder and then goes over to the table and pushes all the loose papers on it into his sack, pushing them down and compressing them so they fit. Then he goes and empties the cubbyholes, putting in all the items that will fit until his sack is heavy and brimming. Finally, he picks up the two pounds that are all that is left on the bare table and lodges them in the lining of his cap, which he straightens on his head.

He sneezes, and Mary notices him, leans back and looks up at him from where she kneels on Harold’s corpse, breathing deeply, the sweat on her forehead breaking in patterns through the horse blood that still marks her. Four or five flies are feeding on her face, but she does not remove them.

‘Are you leaving?’ she asks, each word etched out between a sob.

De Flunkl slings the sack over his shoulder, and his knees almost give at its newfound weight.

‘You have your sack full of dreams now,’ she says. ‘Though I don’t know how you came by it. My husband was a-one like you, always picking up pieces of paper with his hands that were full of dreams. Sometimes, I swear it, men feel to me like something they make up as they go along, as though the constant inventions of their madness are all they have to prove they exist; and your sack full of papers appears to be such an invention as this. Excuse my ramblings, sir. I am fatigued and distraught. My Big Cat is dead, consumed in the fires of hell, and he is alone, without me there by him to soothe his burns, blow on his blisters and whisper my love into his ears. Do you think this fair?’

De Flunkl looks at her, edging towards the door.

‘You are leaving now, I take it. May I go with you, sir? I have no one left to love and take care of, now my Big Cat is gone. I will be faithful to you.’

He begins climbing the steps.

‘Do not leave me in this mad town, unguarded,’ she yells, panic overtaking her. ‘Take me with you or I’ll be killed by these rogues. I beg it of you.’

De Flunkl runs out, leaving the hacking noise of flies and frenzied wailing behind him. He looks to his right and sees William of Roscrea is far away down the street, crawling on his hands and knees out of town. Saint John is following him at a respectful distance, the intestines no longer slung round him, but their blood streaked across his back like whiplashes.