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.Brother Anselm, you will be glad to hear, no longer hunts.I asked him about the girl in the photograph but he got quite agitated and said he couldn’t recall her at all.He has good days and bad days and I fear that he, like Santa Eulalia, is breathing his last breaths and is unlikely to live through another winter.We have had the doctor out to him, and even Violante Burzaco, the pastequeira from Camiga, I think that you met her once when you were here, but nothing has done any good.The only one of our community who fares well is Quixote, the three-legged dog who was a puppy when you were last here.He seems to have fathered pups in most of the villages around and a good proportion of them also have only three legs! Strange, but no doubt the scientists would have an answer.Anyhow, Michael, sorry that this is such a gloomy letter, but if you can see your way to visiting us here at some time in the near future you know you would be more than welcome.I remain, in God, your friend Brother Francisco.Michael wondered what on earm could be wrong with Brother Anselm.He did remember Violante, the pastequeira.She was a fascinating old woman, an old-fashioned healer.She’d lived alone in a rambling house in Pig Lane.People had great belief in her powers and had come to see her from miles around.Most days from dawn until nightfall there was a steady stream of people queuing outside her door.There were agitated mothers holding the clammy hands of whey-faced toddlers, halfwits or giggling idiots.Old women came too with their infantile husbands in tow, decrepit old men, wide-eyed and dribbling, shambling along obediently.He felt extraordinarily restless tonight.He wanted to get back to Spain and find out why his girl had stopped writing to him, and visit Santa Eulalia one last time, as it didn’t seem likely that it would remain open much longer.Perhaps during the next school holidays he would be able to get out there, God willing.Michael Leary folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope.He sat for some time deep in thought Outside, the first large drops of rain were falling and the rising wind rattled the window-panes.Sister Agatha closed the door to the attic and turned the key in the lock.She always felt better when she knew that Sister Immaculata was safely installed behind a locked door.There was something unsettling about the old nun.The way she looked at you, the way those eerie glittery eyes bored right inside your head.Sister Agatha was sure that Sister Immaculata wasn’t in possession of all her faculties, and yet there was a shrewdness and a sneaky cleverness about her that was unnerving.Sister Agatha had suggested to Sister Veronica that they should get shot of Sister Immaculata, ship her off to a rest home somewhere, but Sister Veronica wouldn’t hear of it.Apparently, when Sister Immaculata passed away St Joseph’s would get a large amount of money from the old nun’s family.Behind the attic door Sister Immaculata listened to the soft pad of Sister Agatha’s feet as she descended the narrow staircase.She pulled a face at the back of the door.She hated Sister Agatha.She was a devious, wily, cruel old bitch and she wouldn’t trust her further than she could throw her.The weak light of the candle cast fitful shadows across the bare and broken walls of the attic room.Sister Immaculata kneeled down and pulled a small wooden box out from beneath the bed.She sat down on the bed with the box in her lap and opened the lid.The inside of the box smelled faintly of camphor and mildew.A name and address had once been written on the inside of the lid but now the writing was faded and the surname had long been obliterated.Perhaps, though, if she sat very quietly and closed her eyes she might be able to remember it.She knew that it was important to remember.Thoughts were difficult for her these days.Sometimes she went into a room but couldn’t remember why she’d gone there.There were rooms all over St Joseph’s where she’d left her thoughts.It was no good.Tonight the name would not come to her.She took a faded envelope out of the box, tipped it up and a photograph slid out.It was a wrinkled sepia photograph of a young woman sitting in a high-backed wicker chair with two babies nestling in her lap.They were identical babies, peas-in-the-pod twins.Two pretty little things with wide innocent eyes and tousled curls.Sister Immaculata traced her finger gently round the outline of the woman’s face.If only she could remember who she was and what her name was.The woman looked down at the children with an expression of such intense love that it brought a lump to Sister Immaculata’s throat.She closed her eyes and began to rock backwards and forwards.Slowly, so slowly at first, then faster and faster.She opened her eyes and looked again at the photograph.She imagined the woman’s mouth beginning to twitch, a trembling of the top lip, then the lips curving upwards into a smile that crinkled the skin round the eyes.Warm dark eyes that reflected the swaying fronds of the courtyard palm tree outside the window of the villa.There were small beads of sweat on the downy hairs above the top lip.The woman’s skin was smooth and dark and her long hair curved as soft as velvet round her slender neck.Any moment now the mouth would open and call a name…Outside, the evening darkened and the wind moaned around St Joseph’s, far away thunder growled.A rook flew past the window and its shadow lingered for a second and then disappeared.The candle flickered and hissed, then died.In Nirvana House, Dancey Amati was woken by the sound of the rain as it fell through the whispering branches of the trees.She pulled back the bed covers, got out of bed and crossed to the window.There were no stars in the sky tonight no Milky Way to wonder at A storm was on its way and the air smelled strange.A flicker of excitement and fear tickled her spine.She remembered a storm from ages ago when she’d worked in the fish cannery in Camiga.She’d worked there for a long, long time and the money she’d earned Mama had put into her purse to save for their journey, the one they’d never made…She shivered.She didn’t like to think about the past.She’d hated working in the cannery but she’d loved the people.Ottilie and Carmen, who were sisters, and old Dolores who was nearly blind had been really kind to her and she’d never even had a chance to say goodbye.Inside the cannery it had been cool and dark and the walls oozed a damp fishy syrup; the floor was always wet and slippery as ice.It stank of salt and seaweed, iodine and fish, blood and guts.The heady smells of women’s sweat: sweet jasmine and garlic; lilac and raw onion.Ottilie and Carmen had the worst job of all.They had to chop off the heads of the fish and toss them into large wooden barrels.Dancey winced at the memory.Chop and bang.Bang and chop.Steel against soft bone and flesh.Then old Dolores scooped the headless fish from the barrel and stacked them in crates, their tails sticking out of the back.Slither and slop.Slop and slither.She gagged as she remembered the stink of her blood-spattered overall that came down almost to her ugly boots and made her look like a circus clown without the smile.For a long time after she’d left the cannery she still had the wedding ring marks made by the scissors on the soft skin of her thumb and finger.She had always had to take a deep breath and close her ears to the sound of the blades meeting.Flash and snip.Silver on silver.Steel on steel.Snip and flash.Rip and snip
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