I found myself shivering as I asked it; the cold in that dark little kitchen suddenly seeping into my bones. The shock of it all was starting to take effect. I couldn’t seem to stop my teeth from chattering and I had an awful feeling that I was going to embarrass myself and lose control of my bladder or bowel right there in front of all those hard-eyed strangers.

‘Have to what?’ I asked, and it sounded so pathetic that I actually made myself cross. Tears started down my cheeks. ‘This isn’t right. We haven’t done anything wrong. There’s a policeman comes past here sometimes, just to check on things. And the next farm over belongs to a young lad who wouldn’t back down from a scrap. Please tell me what’s happening, look at my husband, he’s not well, he’s not …’

‘Give over,’ came a familiar voice, weak and gravelly but unmistakably John. ‘I’m all right. Just winded. Cup of tea and I’ll be back on my feet.’

The two men who’d hurt him turned to look at me. I was half dizzy from the spinning torchlight and the candle flame and they’d taken care not to let their faces be seen, but for a moment I got a better look at the nearest one; the moonlight just managing to throw a little illumination on his features. He was an ugly bugger. Big slab of a face and pockmarks all the way up one cheek. He was all scowl and nasty little piggy eyes.

‘Here,’ he said, when he saw me looking. ‘Read him a lullaby.’

He threw something down onto the floor between us. I picked it up. It was a little leather-bound notebook: a strap of cord wrapped around its front and the letters J.J.H. embossed on the front. It looked expensive. Looked quality. Didn’t look like something that would belong to John or me.

‘Leave it,’ said John again, and reached out a hand. I handed him the book automatically, not sure what I’d picked up. John grabbed it as if it were the Bible.

‘John,’ I said, kneeling at his side. ‘Where does it hurt? Can you breathe? What did they do?’

He screwed up his features. Twenty-odd years together had taught me that whenever he said nothing it was because he really didn’t have anything to say. He looked sick. Scared, even. It’s a horrible thing, seeing your man scared. I wanted to put my hand on his face but everybody was looking at us and I felt such a silly fool that I just kind of stayed there, half squatting, chattering away about this and that and nothing and asking where it hurt.

I looked up at the sound of the little man shuffling about on the bench. He looked as though something was paining him.

‘Suffering?’ asked the tall man.