I woke in the darkness feeling ill, unable to tell how long I had been asleep. I felt a great urgency to get out of the bed and find a place to be sick, away from the hides that smelt of dog and fed my nausea. I was wearing a nightdress. I stood up barefoot, stomach clenching, found the heavy coat I had brought and threw it on, then dashed through the door and out into the hallway.

At first, I could see very little and was unsure where to go. The desperate desire to vomit surging in my throat, I remembered the woman’s words and turned to my right. Outside, the cold breeze that struck me quelled the nausea for a moment. The sky had clouded over and I struggled to find the silhouette of a small outbuilding at the end of a rough path of granite flagstones. I stepped forward and found the door ajar; it squeaked as I pushed it inwards. The stench almost persuaded me to step out again.

All was blackness inside. I felt along the doorjamb to my left, the side away from the hinges of the door. A small ledge, a candle on a dish and a tin of matches. The nausea was building again, fed by the stink of the privy. My fingers rushed their work, fumbling for the square of sandpaper, and I dropped the first match I tried. I took another and pinched it in the sandpaper. With a shower of sparks, the match flared and the small room was flooded with light.

I was not alone.

I raised my eyes and looked directly into the eyes of a man, above me, staring. I screamed.

There was no movement, no sound. The match sputtered and went out. The tin was still in my hand and desperately I fumbled another match and struck it.

The familiar face, convict slops. Declan Connolly hung there, suspended from the beam above the hole that was the privy. His face had darkened, his tongue bulged in the front of his mouth. The rope pulled deep under his jaw. The knot was behind one ear, tilting his head slightly on a neck made ghastly long. An upturned chair lay in the corner behind him.

I staggered and felt the world spinning and tried to scream again but could find no sound. The match burned my fingers and went out.

I flailed and found the door, smashed it open. The sickness came in a rush and I sprayed vomit heedlessly over the ground outside that hellhole, on my knees and one elbow, the other hand grabbing at my hair. I do not recall if I got up and ran, or if I crawled that way, back into the corridor.