Jock looked at Fred, who nodded and stared back at the TV. Fred noticed his friend pale and swallow hard. Silence sat heavily between them.

Sandra came back into the room and showed no interest in the TV. She took up her knitting. Another grandchild was due in December. Sandra always knitted in neutral colours before they knew the sex. She chose either white, yellow or mint, not wanting to use pink or blue for fear of bad luck. Their children had been raised in the natural way, but had wandered to different leanings, what with the pressures and allure of modern life. It was their choice. They’d enjoyed a wonderfully free childhood, attending gatherings and pursuing organic pastimes, but partners, jobs and universities had caught up with them and pulled them away. All three lived in or around London.

Fred didn’t draw any more attention to the news, and Jock coughed, as if embarrassed in front of Sandra. Sandra looked up but once to smile at her guest. Jock Harris was a gentle giant who’d seen much of the world and the evil within and, for some, he was difficult to read. The old man remained silent and Fred switched channels. Joe was right. There was no mistake. In the photo, she had the look of an innocent, despite Fred knowing the opposite to be true of the poor girl. Fred’s heart ached and he wished he wasn’t such an empath. It burdened him from time to time but that, he supposed, was the whole point. He felt what others did not. He saw pain, despair, hunger, malice and desolation, often before those who were struck down saw it. His life in general was a peaceful one but, occasionally, somebody would walk into his private space – wittingly or not – and present him with a dilemma.

Kirk Junker was one of them.