It might have been a week after the last election, I can’t quite be sure, when a huge rust-streaked ship drifted into the island’s waters. The shire sent a boat out in case the ship’s crew were in distress, but what the rescuers found chilled them to the core and they vowed never to speak of it again.

Each of us islanders imagined the most horrific sight we could: strewn body parts; the deck painted with faeces; a man being raped by a pig, that sort of thing. As for myself, the worst I could imagine was silence. A ship steered by people who couldn’t speak, who couldn’t even look at you.