But, damn it, he thought later, in the silence of his house, what use was it when all was said and done? What had he achieved? Preserved the Sergeant’s quiet life, saved some lawyers’ bills, made a truce for a few weeks – until the O’Flynns started another row. It was all as futile as the letter he had written for Joe Halpin, as futile as anything else he had done for Kilbride. In his whole life, in fact, had he ever done anything that was not futile, anything strong that would last?

And so, he began once more to think of Tomás. Was it too late? Too late, he amended hastily, to call around to see Bat? No, of course not. It was never too late to call on Bat. Ceremony was something that Bat would never know how to stand upon.

Calling on Bat was a daunting experience, though. As he got out of the car, a pack of hounds bounded around the corner of an outhouse and flung themselves upon him. Beating them off, he crossed the bone-littered yard at a quick shuffle, half-stooping to protect the calves of his legs. They circled him hysterically as he fumbled with the makeshift wire noose on the garden gate; then they swept in with him, snuffing at his heels, lunging through the bedraggled bushes on either side as he hurried up the path. To his relief, Bat appeared at the back door in a filthy apron and gave a high-pitched yap, somewhat like their own. Then they all swept together into the kitchen, where a great, black pot simmered on the range, lumps of meat bobbing about in it. The room smelled of straw and rendered fat.

With a perfunctory rinse of his hands under the kitchen tap, Bat put on the kettle for tea, then took up the half-chewed skull of something and flung it out the door to be pursued by the pack. He shut the door on them and came back to take several loaves of bread out of the bin, feel for the freshest one, and plank it down on the bread board.

Father Conroy did not wait for tea. He put his question without much ado and watched Bat’s forehead wrinkle as if in pain.

“But d’you really want to know, Tom? You see, I told you the way I had to promise the Canon...”

“Fair enough,” said Father Conroy and stood up to go.

“Ah, now, wait, Tom. What’s your hurry? If ye must know, sure, damn it, ye must have some good reason, and I’m sure the Canon won’t mind...”

“No, it doesn’t matter. Forget it, Bat.”

“I’ll tell you what, then. I can’t give ye the address but the Canon wouldn’t mind if I showed you the photos he got.”

“Photos? Did he send photos?”