Because there was Isabella, too.

Control and the others knew that Beatrix was in the world now, looking for them; their names were on a list, all ready to be struck out. They would do everything they could to protect themselves. She knew Control. He would feel cornered and vulnerable, and the only possible response for a man like him would be to go on the attack. There would be no respite. No surcease. She could go dark again, and he wouldn’t rest. He would be relentless, determined, and tear down the world until he found her. He had resources behind him that she couldn’t hope to beat. If she delayed, she would lose all of her advantages. He would find her in the end, and when he did, there would be nothing that she could do.

She had to take the battle to him while she had the advantage. She would keep moving, perpetual motion, so that he could be kept off balance.

She looked at the photographs again.

She had her daughter to think about now.

She had no choice.

There were no alternatives.

She was set on a course that she could not change.

Immutable.

Indelible.

Unshakeable.

She had to follow it to its destination, whatever that was.

She looked up into the darkened vault of the sky again. The moon, plump and fat, was suspended above the rolling dunes, an orange counterpoint to the flames that burned on the horizon, the torches of fired gas. The crimson filter crept all the way across the silver disc, staining it all. Beatrix stood, brushing the sand from her legs. Her mind was clear now. She knew that she had no choice in any of this. Her fate was a focussed beam, from here to its vanishing point, that allowed no possibility of diversion. There was peace in that knowledge, and her mind, finally, was quietened.

She folded the strip of photographs along the crease and slipped it back into her pocket again.

She went back inside, fastened the tarpaulin behind her and returned to her bed. She was asleep within minutes.

Chapter Nineteen

The news that Ahmed was dead passed around the cell quickly, and then it was passed down the corridor to the other cells. It was adorned with new information, some of it true and plenty of it false, until it returned to their cell the next day so changed that it was difficult to know what to believe. The suggestion that he had suffered a heart attack was debunked, and now everyone believed the same thing: he had been tortured for his impertinence and had died during the ordeal.

That was probably true. The details didn’t matter.

The temperature rose higher and higher until the atmosphere was feverish.

Faik withdrew to the back of the cell. There was always violence just beneath the surface, but now it seemed dangerously close and ready to catch light. He didn’t want to be anywhere near the front when it started.