He stood. He held the empty kettle and he howled and he howled and he howled. He bowelled in them howls meticulously, and she couldn’t understand how he could still hold the kettle so tight with all that growling noise coming out of him.

If he’d used the electric kettle it coulda been worse, she would later observe to the doctors.

He used the kettle that sat on the edge of the range. A chronically on-the-boil broiling kettle. The one she used for pouring hot water into dirty stuff that she wouldn’t put her good kettle near.

She did not take the trousers off him.

She left him in them for a very good reason.

You left them in their own puddles.

Puddles of their own creating.

She put him in the car and drove him to the hospital.

He was strangely quiet.

It’s a crime scene, she thought.

At the hospital she handed him over.

He told them only about Beirut and needing to get to a wedding.

Later she had to tell them the facts: he poured a hot kettle down on himself like y’know. She nodded her head in emphasis as she said it like they may have entirely missed the reason why he was here.

—Was it an accident?

—It was no accident, she said. He held the kettle tight. I couldn’t get near it. He held it like a gun and then scalded it into himself backwards.

They took him in straight away.

She washed her hands.

She washed her hands again.

As she pulled the paper towel from its holder she thought of the many times she had considered he was not right in the head and she thought that it was perhaps a surprise he hadn’t done it sooner and she wondered exactly when had he planned it? She wondered if he would tell the doctors that she tied him in the Chair and she felt confident that the doctors would agree with her reasons for doing so. What else could you do? And together they would all nod in agreement.

Only once did Martin John make a comment when she tied him in. It wasn’t even a comment as much as an observation.

—What if there’s a fire?

—There’s one fella here who’ll start a fire and it’s you. You are in this chair, so there will never be a fire.

She always talked through what she was doing while she tied him in. As she pulled the rope, she’d ask, is that too tight? We don’t want it to hurt you. We only want to keep you safe. Sometimes she turned on the telly for him. Asked him which channel he wanted. Sometimes he replied and sometimes he didn’t. She chose the channel that would excite him the least and went to work.

Of course she went to work. She had to work. How else would she have kept them fed? It was cleaning work, lots of hard mopping. Often when her shoulders pained, she knew it was atonement for all the hurt her body had inadvertently created. She would pray as she mopped, but she would never say the Hail Mary. She would pray in sayings. Let him who has not sinned cast the first stone. Passion of Christ, strengthen me. Kind Jesus, hear my prayer. Hide me within your wounds. Immaculate Heart of Mary. Pray for us. St Joseph. Pray for us. St John the Evangelist. Pray for us. Then she puzzled over how St John the Evangelist had ever snuck onto her list as she squeezed out the mop. But every time he was there. Every incantation he turned up. She couldn’t rid her tongue of the man.

Martin John needed no details of her work. Only that she must go out now for a while but would be back soon enough. He was dangerous when he got information. Any small bit could set him off. It had, she reasoned, taken years to restrain him safely in the Chair. She was only doing what the doctors and those in authority refused to do. She was only doing what needed to be done with bad men. Bad men aren’t good for us, she thought, resigned, the way you’re probably thinking about how long this is taking to read or how uncomfortable that chair is. Say it. Say it now. It’s uncomfortable. Time to shift the cushions behind your back.

She went to the hospital canteen and ate a very large tuna sandwich. She was never a fan of tuna and would not be making a habit of it. It wasn’t the sort of thing that appealed to her, the smell alone, but she needed to be ready for the questions. The police might be involved. Surely they’d all come now. They were probably waiting upstairs.

There was no sign of the guards when she returned upstairs. Maybe the police were sorting out paperwork.

She contemplates using the word depraved to describe him, but stops short. She can’t be sure. Is he honestly depraved, or simply raving?

Is there any difference?

If she no longer has to deal with Martin John (if they lock him up in here or wherever it is they lock these people up), would she be able to go for her lunch or dinner now and again to Dunnes Stores? She thought of the Carvery deal where they give you a few vegetables and mash potatoes along with a slice of beef or a bit of chicken.

The doctor seemed surprised when she inquired about castration. She did not mess about, just came out with it.

—Do you castrate fellas like him? Is that what you do?

He said he was a burns doctor and they’d be moving Martin John to the Burns Unit.

Mam assumes him a Junior. They know nothing. They haven’t a clue and are just reporting to the fellas above them. He was being coy.

—Have they been in yet? she asked the Junior.

—Who?

—Who else? The Guards.

—I don’t think so, the doctor said.

—If he used the electric kettle it coulda been worse.

He did not say anything further to her after that. He has been told not to initiate any conversation. To keep the crime scene preserved, if you like, not to contaminate the evidence or complicate things, she assumed.

Finally the psychiatric people came. You took a while, she said.

We understand there are some issues, they said.

We’ll wait for the guards, she told them warmly. I don’t want to have to repeat myself.

The psychiatric people added another woman. As if we need an interpreter, she thought, but things were bad enough and she didn’t want more time to be added to whatever sentence he would be facing.

The psychiatry people did not wait for the guards though. They asked her questions.

She asked them questions. The same question she’d asked the other fella.

Would castration be an option?

—How long has he not been himself?

—It’s about thirty-five years since he was absolutely normal, she confirms flatly.