‘He brought solitude on us,’ Áoife says, ‘so as to better slaughter us individually, to rule us easier. He brought that man into town; who is the root of all our badness.’

‘Colca did not bring the man here,’ Raghnailt says. ‘That is a lie; and you only wish that the man was the root of all you have done.’

‘No, you lie, Raghnailt,’ Glynis says. ‘Isolation stopped nothing. Concessa was a saint, who kept to her rooms, never seeing anyone this four years, and sickness has killed her.’

Áoife hits her own chest at this, and a few others take up her cheer. When people’s bodies are pressed close they become darker, Raghnailt thinks. At the end of the street, she sees the child is etching figures onto a house with a small rock.

‘So, then, good Raghnailt how come Gertrude,’ Glynis continues, ‘who is a slut, lives? How come? She loves gangrenous men for their last given money, has their sicknesses discharged into her gap, mixes salivas with them. Why is she alive? There is no rhyme to this sickness. Your son has deprived our pleasures and our movements, our last moments of tenderness with our families. He is guilty.’

They are cheering at this; even Eoin nods.

‘Guilty of what?’ Raghnailt says. ‘I don’t understand.’

Someone spits at her, but it falls short, darkening a little spot of ground at her feet. Her son has been obscured behind the movement of legs. The crowd is swaying.

‘You will not hurt her,’ Eoin shouts, covering her with his arms. ‘You are cowards. You hurt a good woman, do you?’

‘He fucks horses,’ Genevieve says. ‘He fucks them, and is always naked. Angela Fitzsimmons said she saw him officiating a mass over two goats in the woods. He had put little hats on them, and then married them, one to the other.’

There are yells of outrage at this; deep groaning sounds from a woman.

‘That is another lie,’ Raghnailt says, ‘and it is not the question. He confined you to your houses for your health; and now you dance together as one. You will all be dead by nightfall. You are killing yourselves with this.’

‘My daughter is dead,’ Glynis shouts. He pushes forward, swinging wildly. Three men start fighting, and the violence spreads. Eoin relinquishes his grip on Raghnailt and begins subduing Glynis, who is the tallest man remaining in town after Joseph and Tedbalt. Gabriel Preston jumps on Glynis’s back and is stoving his head in with his elbow. Glynis goes to ground, and once he is down, the circle around Raghnailt widens.

‘You are done,’ Eoin says.

He is breathless, his hands on his hips, standing over Glynis. The Prestons are so young; their vigour overpowers their elders, to a man. Everyone is silent, and still again.