Julia grabbed her mother’s hand, pressed it against her chest: she took a long, calm breath.

‘See? No wheezing.’

Julia took another long breath, holding the palm against her ribcage; her mother listened intently for the familiar sound that – logically – should have been triggered by this episode. After all, she had just seen her daughter running along the beach, skirting the waves, dodging and throwing a ball, playing between piles of seaweed, her cheeks flushed, her eyes shining, breathless from an exertion that seemed to have no more effect on her than it did on the other children. She stared at her daughter, puzzled, unable to grasp what Julia had intuited the moment she got out of bed that morning.

‘The Blessed Virgin has cured me, Maman.’

III

A MIRACLE

There was a deafening clamour in the restaurant; there was not a single unoccupied table. The diners were crammed together like sardines, others perched at the counter or sitting on folding chairs brought from the kitchen. From table to table, voices were raised; people called and shouted, an unusual, bubbling tumult, driven by the only topic of conversation that had been stirring the island since the morning.

‘The little Bourdieu girl’s asthma has been completely cured.’

‘It was the intercession of the Blessed Virgin, that’s what it was!’

‘How do we even know she’s been cured?’

‘The doctor paid them a visit last night. He’s completely baffled.’

‘What about Estelle Faguette? She had an incurable illness, and the Virgin Mary cured her!’

‘Yeah, but that was – what? – a hundred years ago!’

Madenn moved between the tables, serving food, taking away empty jugs. She looked preoccupied. There was none of the usual banter, none of the genial welcome for which she was known. Although the dining room was packed, this was not one of the lunchtimes brimming with the good humour she usually enjoyed: this was an explosive, unsettling furore. Like a bar at closing time when everyone is tanked up and it would only take one word for a fight to break out, the rowdy diners here seemed likely to snap at any moment.

‘I’ve got osteoarthritis – why doesn’t she cure me, eh?’

‘What about me? I’ve got cancer!’

‘You’ve been saying that for the past ten years. That’s not cancer, it’s hypochondria!’

‘Enough!’

The gales of laughter were harsh and maddening, or perhaps Madenn simply could not stand these people any more. She pushed open the front door, stepped out of the restaurant, and took a deep breath of fresh air. Out on the terrace, diners were huddled on benches, finishing their lunch. She went and cleared some plates, took fresh orders: bread, some quiche, a flagon of chouchen.fn1 She couldn’t focus; she kept turning around and anxiously scanning the road. For several nights now she had been woken by the same sound: a dull thud, the sound of a body falling to the ground, a body being beaten and, with it, a rasping guttural breath, the horrid panting of some beast that filled her with a nameless terror. Every night, she had got up and peered out of her bedroom window, blindly groped her way down to the empty dining room, yet outside she saw nothing but the deserted road. This morning, for the first time, she had been truly frightened on her way home from the market; she could sense something lurking in the fields, or at a bend in the road. She had run the rest of the way back, suddenly aware that nowhere on this island was safe any more.

‘Have you got chips on the menu today?’

Off to one side of the terrace, sitting at his customary table, Goulven was eating his sandwich with both hands. He seemed untroubled by the boisterous crowd, more interested in his lunch than in some miraculous cure.

Madenn was walking past with a number of empty plates.

‘You can see the place is jammed, Goulven. I’m only serving cold dishes.’

‘But I have a hankering for a plate of chips.’

Madenn turned on her heel and slammed the plates down on Goulven’s table.

‘Then cook them yourself!’

She barged back into the stifling dining room. The windows were fogged with condensation and gave off the sour smell of cider. The clamour in the place grew louder as glasses were knocked over, cutlery clattered on to the floor, fists pounded on tables.

‘The Virgin has to perform a miracle now. A bona fide miracle!’

‘Yeah, something we can all witness.’

‘Hey, Madenn!’

A customer grabbed her sleeve, dragged her into the centre of the crowd like a fish caught in a net.

‘You know this boy, don’t you? Tell him to ask for a miracle!’

‘Youenn’s got a point. That lad needs to pull his finger out.’

‘Too right. He just kneels there on the ground, doesn’t say what he sees, and there’s us all standing around like lemons!’

A baying pack, yapping at each other across the tables, presuming to talk about the sacred when they had lost every shred of humanity. If God Himself had appeared to them in that moment, they would have wanted more: more proof, more concrete evidence. Nothing had ever been enough for mankind, not since Abraham. Madenn took a deep breath. The pink had drained from her cheeks. Her sweaty hair was plastered to her forehead. She leaned one hand on the back of the customer’s chair.

‘Get out.’

A whisper rippled around the tables, followed by giggles of disbelief. Then Madenn whipped the chair away, tipping the benighted customer off his seat. Suddenly, everyone fell silent, shocked by what she had done, but mostly surprised by the power in her grip.

‘Get out! The lot of you!’

She grabbed one end of a paper tablecloth and pulled it away, sending the crockery crashing on to the floor. Instantly, she moved on; another table, a sharp tug on the tablecloth, smashed plates, shards of glass everywhere. In stunned silence the diners stood up, collected their coats and scarves, pushed their way through the front door, and warned everyone outside that Madenn had gone stark raving mad.

Within minutes, the place was deserted. It was a strange, almost mocking silence of the sort that follows storms that have uprooted trees, capsized boats and then disappeared, giving way to silence, as though nothing had happened, as though there had been no destruction. The empty restaurant now looked like a rubbish tip, with shards of crockery and upturned chairs all over the floor, pieces of quiche and cheese and breadcrumbs scattered everywhere, while tankards of beer spewed out their creamy foam.

Having made sure that no one was left inside, Madenn went out, double-locked the door, and started walking down the road.

Outside Alan’s house there was a gathering of the faithful. An incongruous, impromptu congregation stood, humble and reverent, praying, singing hymns, reciting the Rosary in front of the run-down house in which the seer lived. Madenn appeared, striding down the road, gesticulating wildly.

‘This is private property! Clear off!’

Surprised and intimidated by this sudden display of authority, the crowd scattered and regrouped a few metres further down the road, where they carried on praying. Madenn climbed the steps and knocked several times.

‘Alan! Alan! It’s Madenn …’

The door opened a crack to admit her. Inside there was no daylight; the hall and living room were steeped in a murky gloom. Alan had stopped opening the shutters when curious onlookers began to press their faces against the windows, trying to catch a glimpse of Isaac in his natural habitat. Alan’s house, an unprepossessing building that had been ignored by everyone, was suddenly a shrine, a magnet for busybodies and gossipmongers.

Alan padded down the hall. He seemed resigned to living in this half-light, almost taking a certain pleasure in his home being turned into a fortress. The pale glow from the bulb that dangled on two bare wires revealed all the defects of the kitchen: cracked tiles, peeling paint, coffee stains on the wooden table. Although the shutters were closed, the windows had been left ajar in an attempt to air the room and dispel the cigarette smoke.

Alan opened a cupboard and took down a mug.

‘What brings you here at this hour?’

Madenn slumped on to a chair. Her ears were ringing. She could still hear the piercing echo of shattered crockery. She ran a hand over her forehead.