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Outside, she realised her car was back at the hospital. Mooney was on his third drink. She couldn’t ask him to drive her back. She checked Google Maps. It could take an hour to walk. The fresh air might diminish some of the horror she’d felt while she’d watched Jane naming the wounds on the unidentified dead woman. Or she could just get a taxi.

27

Bryan was working in the barn when Lottie returned to the farm. Though it was constructed of old stone, it was warm inside. The air hung heavy. He was mucking about with a wheelbarrow and straw. She had no idea if he was putting it into the barn or taking it out. His broad shoulders moved up and down beneath his shirt, muscles rippling, his head bent over, intent on his work.

‘Bryan?’ She came up behind him.

He jumped. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph.’ He clamped a hand to his chest. ‘You could give a man a heart attack creeping up on him like that.’

‘I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.’ She wondered why he was uneasy. Had she really been that silent in her approach?

‘It’s okay.’ He wiped grimy fingers over his forehead, brushing his sweaty hair out of his eyes. ‘I was in a world of my own.’

‘Can I give you a hand?’

He looked at her as if to say,You’re joking me. ‘You don’t think I can manage a job I’ve done all my life? Ha.’ She noticed some of the tension leach from his face as he leaned on his shovel.

‘Got time for a chat?’ she enquired. ‘When you’re done here?’

‘This can wait.’ He threw down the tool and wiped his hands on his jeans. She still found it difficult to believe he was in his mid fifties. He appeared to be even fitter than she was. Which wasn’t hard, she figured.

‘Is this a private talk,’ he asked, ‘or do you want to go inside to chat over a cup of tea?’

‘It’s private, I suppose.’

‘Let’s walk to the top field. I want to check on the flock anyhow.’

She followed him, wishing she’d taken time to change her footwear. She had on a pair of once white trainers, not the best for trekking through a field. At least it was dry underfoot.

The dog ran ahead of them, and they stopped at one of the many dry-stone walls that traversed the landscape.

‘What’s going on, Lottie?’ He smiled at her and she could see the charm that had more than likely seduced Grace.

‘I’d like to ask you some more about your time in Knockraw?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Was it very violent?’

‘Aye, it was.’ He gazed into the distance. ‘We were kids, but we were treated like criminals. Savage behaviour. I still have scars on my back and arse from being beaten with a belt.’

‘And was it as bad as that in the convent? The Sisters of Forgiveness or whatever they were called.’

‘More so, I’d say. Being forced to work in that place was nothing short of child slavery.’

‘Can you recall any particular cases of extreme brutality in either establishment?’

‘Institutions, you mean.’ His eyes had a faraway look. ‘Don’t like talking about it much. Haven’t ever expressed my feelings to anyone. We were locked up, and by the grace of God, some of us survived.’

‘Did many die behind the walls that you know of?’ She shivered, remembering her own brother’s bones, undiscovered for decades.

‘In Knockraw, I knew a few. One lad was beaten to death by a fucker of a Christian Brother – or maybe he was a priest, I can’t recall. Another lad died of pure hunger. They starved us. Not that you’d think looking at me now.’

She thought he was actually quite lean, but then he was a farmer who worked on the side of a hill. A monster of a seagull flew low over their heads, and she ducked reflexively. The beggars were everywhere. Of course they were, she thought. The ocean was their habitat, not hers.

‘You get used to them,’ he said without humour, looking skywards. ‘You can get used to anything, even torture.’

His choice of word made her heart beat a little faster. ‘What sort of torture?’