The transition from the blinding light of the arrest to the oppressive gloom of the processing centre was a blur of agony and terror. Roisin felt as though she were drifting through a nightmare, her body a map of bruises and her mind a fractured mirror. Then came the processing.

She was shoved into a cold, tiled room that smelled of bleach and old sweat. Four male guards stood there, their expressions ranging from bored indifference to active malice.

"Strip," one of them commanded. His voice was like gravel.