Working her way initially through the woodland creatures, she kept the Queen and King until the last. The gentle rays of a late-afternoon sun filtering down through the overhead branches seemed to render them real, as though they might rise up from the mossy ground and stride out through what were undoubtedly their woods.

The figure of the green woman had been fashioned larger than that of the man. Here I am, she seemed to say. You cannot create this abundance of life without me.

Eventually she tore herself away from the fairy glen. Leaving a place of life for one of death didn’t appeal, yet she felt herself drawn to the cemetery as though by an invisible thread.

It too was tucked in a hollow and her first image from above was of tended walkways and carefully mown grass among the gravestones, some ancient and weathered, others glossy in their newness, some fronted by bright flower gardens.

Entering by the turnstile gate, she stood for a moment, listening to the birdsong from the encircling trees. What a lovely place to end your time on this earth, she thought, but not if you were taken much too early, by a virus that swept through your community, regardless of your attempts to prevent it from entering.

She found the six graves in a far corner, surrounded by a white fence. Feeling like a voyeur, she hesitated before eventually pushing open the little gate and stepping inside the enclosure.

This is where the invisible thread had been pulling her. Until now, the tragedy of Blackrig had merely been an intriguing story. With this, it had become all too real.

The graves were in four rows, the granite headstones each carved with the name and age of the victim.

Closest to her were the infants. She read the inscriptions out loud: ‘Tracey Scott aged eight months. Ben MacKenzie aged fourteen months.’

Then came the primary-aged children: ‘Jenny Huntly aged six years and Rory McAlister aged seven years.’

Sandy Fraser, the only teenager, followed. Sandy had been sixteen years old when he’d died.

And finally, Malcolm’s wife, Mairi Webster, fifty-one years.

A plaque explained that they’d all died over a short period during the previous winter. Joanne found herself in tears as she read the inscription.

No wonder locals didn’t want the Party House to reopen. For them it would always be a symbol of their loss and the fact that justice had never been done over their children’s deaths.

According to Kath, the visitors had come despite lockdown, already aware they were infected. If that was true, it was unforgivable, and the owners of Ard Choille should be held accountable for what she saw as corporate manslaughter.

Maybe if she told the true story in full, they might be.