Feeling the need for sleep, she took off her coat and hung it on the nail behind the door. She splashed her face with cold water at the kitchen sink and then made her way upstairs.

Here she stripped down to her knickers and vest and, because the room grew cold once night set in, she put her nightgown on over her underwear. She sat at the dresser and brushed her brown hair until it shone. Before getting into bed, she dropped her skirt and blouse into the wash basket, as they were splattered with blood.

It made her think of Fanny’s new son. ‘I hope you don’t give me as much trouble as that little lad gave his mammy,’ she murmured, spreading her hand over the bulge beneath her nightgown. Seeing Fanny go through the throes of labour and a difficult delivery had frightened her, but even though she thought it horrific, she believed it was a small price to pay for the joy of holding a tiny new life.

‘I hope you’re a girl,’ she whispered, ‘then you may not look too much like Harry.’ That was one of the fears she had, and it grew with each day that passed. For whatever reason, Tom had vowed to raise the child as his own, but how would he cope if it was made in the living image of its father?

Bridget had another fear. If the child did favour Harry in feature and colouring, how long would it be before people grew suspicious? All it needed was one remark by some nasty-minded individual, and the seed would be sown. ‘God forbid that it should ever happen.’

Bridget drifted into a restless sleep, but twice the dreams woke her; dreams of her and Tom, he on one side and her on the other and between them raging rivers of crimson blood. She could see him drifting further and further away and she couldn’t reach him. ‘I’m sorry, Tom,’ she called out time and again, but he seemed not to hear. Then he fell, screaming, into the blackness below. And, to her horror, she saw every awful detail.

That was when she woke, sweating and afraid. ‘What does it mean?’ She was trembling but she wasn’t cold. Not now. Now, she was burning as if with a fever.

When she had paced the floor until her feet felt like two slabs of ice and she was so tired she could hardly put one leg before the other, she lay down again and closed her eyes. This time she slept, a deep, satisfying sleep.

Through her slumbers she heard a noise. At once awake, she ran to the window. Outside it was pitch black. Not a soul in sight. ‘What’s wrong with me?’ she muttered. ‘I’m beginning to imagine things.’ She wondered whether Tom was back yet. She glanced at the clock. ‘Two o’clock. He should have been home ages since.’

She returned to bed but again she was disturbed by a noise, the same as before, like a child sniggering.