Raghnailt feels destroyed, empty. Colca, seeing her pain, grows distressed ‘I don’t know, but I did try to stop,’ he protests. ‘I never took any animal, but Emota; though I wanted it.’

She leans her head back against the dank, dripping wall, allowing her face to relax so it is blank.

‘Stop,’ she says. ‘Stop talking.’

‘You never saw me try because the battle was inside,’ he protests. ‘Every night for years I would sit by Moynagh lake and I would wash myself in its shallow parts until dawn, and many times there I dreamed of killing myself by taking a few steps more into the lake until the water was above my head.’

He runs his hands through his hair, and the chains rattle.

‘But every morning,’ he says, ‘I emerged from the lake, ashamed at the blood that still coursed through my veins, and I would sit amidst the dew and let it dampen my brow, and within the morning light, which in the winter has such a strange and soft golden quality about it would kill a man with its softness, I would cry so many tears, praying to God to relieve me of my desires. Starlings, thrushes and robins must have made of me a holy thing, such a statue as I was when I prayed. They would land on me like I was Francis, but I was no saint, though I tried so hard to be good, but the whole living world was a snare made of lust set to trap me, no matter how I tried. Do you remember the Fitzsimmons woman three years ago?’

Raghnailt nods, tries to listen, but the fear is making it difficult to concentrate; she can feel it burning up her chest. It is as though my flesh were burning in flames, she thinks.

‘She accused me of soliciting her goats,’ Colca says, ‘but it was not true; I was merely playing with their ears, making them wear little hats. Still I was chased out of Kells by the mob, and the shame was so great I went on a plank of wood on Moynagh lake and I drifted out to its middle, and tried to drown myself.’

‘Son, please stop,’ Raghnailt says. She can feel her heartbeat in her throat; puts her hands round her neck and feels the pulse battering against her fingers. ‘My heart is sore,’ she says. ‘I think there is something wrong with me.’