There is nothing hidden in these people, Raghnailt realises. She sees through them, sees everything. They are nothing now; they have been broken, and they are killing her son so they don’t have to face themselves; so they don’t have to be alone; so that they can delay their own interiority a little longer. They would rather death than loneliness, but the loneliness, she knows now, can never be stopped. And still, she knows that someone will have to die for all this pain that has no centre and no source; all these effects that come from nowhere. Her son will perish so they do not succumb to disintegration, but it will not work; will only be temporary. It is coming. They will kill her boy, and I will remember every word of this forever, and still she can think of nothing other to say than:

‘I ask you one more time what he is guilty of.’

Then she sees, down the street, Mary dragging the small girl away by the hair. The child is protesting, swinging her drawing rock against her, but Mary is too strong, and they are moving towards the dark sentry who guards the edge of the town.

Raghnailt tugs at Gabriel’s sleeve. ‘Run, get that child and bring her back to me,’ she says. ‘It is not safe; and Mary is not sound of mind. Gaels roam free; the paths are compromised. Bring her back.’

Gabriel turns his head briefly to her, but he has not heard her; he is looking down at Colca.

‘Get the child, Gabriel,’ she says.

Glynis is shouting again, flailing madly; Gabriel holds him back, not heeding her or Glynis, still gazing at Colca. Raghnailt notices a thin, interrupted trail of blood running out of town. Intestines draped over the fountain; drying in the sun. The child is gone; it is too late.

‘All these opinions,’ Colca says.

A wide circle forms around him. A new silence is produced. The centre is a fluid thing, and it has shifted to her son. Four men are holding his arms. He shakes his head. He is tired, too, like some saint’s relic, a thing of wonder, a living thing already consigned to the past.

‘Be quiet,’ Raghnailt says. ‘Do not say anything.’

‘All these opinions, I’d rather be dead,’ he says. ‘My whole life, all your stupid opinions have rained down on me, more intrusive than any sickness. Break me in half, but do not weigh me down with your opinions any more. You will have my corpse; rail against it.’

‘Do not provoke them,’ Raghnailt says.

‘Whatever I did,’ Colca says, ‘I would again.’

‘No,’ Raghnailt says. ‘He did it to isolate the sickness. Do not listen to him.’

‘Every last one of you,’ Colca says, ‘will be dead by the end of summer.’

He is looking everywhere but at his mother; avoiding her gaze.

‘What have you done?’ Raghnailt whispers.