The bodies rolled across the floor, like thunder across the sky. Joy put her hands to her ears. She did not like noise. The sound of raised voices, the banging of doors. They sparked dread in her. She found herself rocking back and forth and wondered how long she’d been doing it. Noreen watched, and Joy felt ashamed, forced herself to be still.

“They’ll wear themselves out,” Noreen said, “or the da will get the belt off.”

As if conjured by her words, there came the sound everyone in the house feared: leather on flesh. Even from down here they could hear it, the slap, followed by a cry far higher than a grown man should make. Then again, and again, and a fourth time.

Ivan’s voice, now, cutting through everything, telling them to stop, stop, stop or he’d whip the skin off their backs.

Joy knew what the leather felt like. The sting and the heat of it on her shoulders, her buttocks, her thighs. How the pain lingered like it had been stitched into her skin. Of all the torments of this house, Ivan and his belt were the worst of them. The brothers were as likely to get it as the women, and somewhere inside, Joy was glad they got it now. She was glad of their pain, for they deserved every bloody bit of it.

Quiet fell over the house, sudden and heavy, the wretched rattle of Mary’s chest the only sound. Joy and Noreen looked to each other, both questioning. They each flinched at the sound of the padlock being undone, the bolt sliding, the door opening. Neither of them dared to turn their heads and look.

“I want to see her,” George said.

Joy heard the steps creak under his weight. He was as large as his brother, but more fat than meat. His breath sounded like it was hard come by, juddering in and out of him. Joy felt the bulk of him through the wooden boards beneath her feet, and she wondered when he had last come down here. Years, she thought.

He came to the foot of the bed, and Joy dared to glance at him. His thinning red hair stood in clumps over his pink scalp. His lower lip was swollen and bloody, and his right cheek had puffed up. Half the buttons had been torn from his shirt, revealing the stained vest underneath.

George stood entirely still but for the rise and fall of his chest, staring down at the child. Joy searched his face for any sign of emotion, but apart from his wounds, it was as blank as ever, his lower lip drooping.

She inhaled, ready to speak, and the sound of her breath startled him, as if he hadn’t known she was there. He looked down at her, and she felt naked. She stared back for a moment as she sought her tongue.

“Please help her,” she said.