‘Now, now, Daedio, ’twill be the angels the good Lord sends for you when the time comes. Annie has been gone for a very long time.’

‘Father…’ The whisper was faint and hoarse. Father Jerry sat down on the side of the bed in front of the fire and leant closer. ‘Mary Kate, she will be back – she has a nature for the place. Look out for her, will you. Not everyone understands about Shona, but you do, Father. You know. I don’t trust that old witch. She’ll have done something on her deathbed, used the last of her strength to cast another curse. She never stopped blaming me for taking the seven acres out from under her.’

Father Jerry did understand only too well. He fought off the evil spirits that floated into Tarabeg from time to time by marching around the village late at night, chanting, protecting it with a band of prayer. Since Shona had died, he had felt the urge less; he’d thought they were safe. But now he was sure that, even far away in Liverpool, misfortune had befallen Mary Kate. She was beyond his protection. It would appear Daedio had known what he himself could not countenance: Shona may have cast a final curse.

If the letter from Mrs Brogan’s daughter was right, Mary Kate was in desperate trouble again. How had that happened? Had he let the Malones down? He closed his eyes and prayed out loud for her to return safely home to Tarabeg, where he knew he would have more chance of protecting her than in Liverpool. A wind of discontent was blowing through the village. He prayed hard, knowing he would need all the help that God could afford him. He was the priest in a village of ghosts and not all of them meant well.

*

Mrs Doyle in the post office had connected Michael to the number in Liverpool. ‘Oh, ’tis you, Michael. Well, isn’t this just the thing. Is it a number in Liverpool you will be after?’

Michael gave her the number and then took a deep breath as a familiar irritation rose within him. ‘It is, Mrs Doyle. If you could connect me as soon as possible, I would be very grateful.’

He read out the number again to Mrs Doyle, who he could hear writing it down on the other end of the line. He wondered if it would be quicker just to walk to the end of the main street and shout it through the post office door to her.

‘And who does that number belong to? You’ve never called it before.’ Mrs Doyle’s line of questioning was not unusual in a village where the inhabitants were strangers to secrets.

Mrs Doyle could get no answer at the Marcus household, so Michael had her try Dr Marcus’s surgery instead. Finally, to his relief, the phone rang out and was quickly answered by a male voice.

‘Hello, Doctor, would that be you? I apologise for calling, but I was wondering, would it be too much trouble to have a quick word with my Mary Kate?’