Inteachán squeezes past the web to reach the altar from behind. She reaches towards the box.

Something stirs in the darkness. A gentle sigh. Inteachán knows this sound.

‘Fomhóire,’ she says softly to herself. ‘I’d better be quick.’

She gently lifts the box and places it in her rucksack. The sigh is getting louder now. Like gas escaping from a valve.

Inteachán reaches the rope as the sound gets louder and louder. The small space begins to fill with noise.

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