She stopped by the hoarding she had sneaked through five, or was it six days ago? So much had happened since her run-in with the spliff-smoking, unicorn-discussing trio that it was hard to conceive less than a week had passed. She itched to go inside the mill, to search for any indication that Tahlia might have been using it as a refuge, but her unauthorised detour had already taken too long and she couldn’t justify entering on foot. Intent on providing a visual deterrent for anyone who might be lurking, biding their time for their own illicit reconnoitre, she drove around the block once more before reluctantly rejoining the main road and the slow crawl of early commuters attempting to get home.

* * *

Water sloshed over the top of Jem’s boots as she waded up the avenue, counting the house numbers and trying not to drop any of her kit into the lively flow tugging at her legs. She had abandoned the RRV two streets away and asked Ryan to put HART on standby for a possible extrication. HART, equipped for water rescue, was in high demand, so pre-emptively adding her call to their list seemed prudent.

A high-pitched series of yells guided her to the right address, and she opened the front door after a perfunctory knock, walking into a living room ankle-deep in filthy water.

“Hello? Ambulance,” she called into the murk. The power had gone out across the area over an hour ago.

“Upstairs,” a woman replied. “Through the kitchen. Hurry!”

The beam of Jem’s torch guided her between a corner sofa and a coffee table bedecked with sodden leather placemats. Pumpkins and onions glided by as she entered the kitchen, and she almost skidded on a submerged potato.

“Shit,” she said, hefting her response bag back onto her shoulder and starting up the stairs. “Which room, love?” she shouted.

“Second—” the woman’s voice broke off to pant, “left.”

Multiple candles flickered as Jem pushed the door, the light dimming and then flaring to reveal a twenty-something Pakistani woman kneeling by the side of the bed. Heavily pregnant and clearly in the latter stages of labour, she murmured a grateful string of Urdu on seeing Jem.

“Hey, my name’s Jem.” The mattress springs creaked beneath the weight of the bags she threw onto it. “How many weeks along are you?”

“I’m Madina.” The woman managed a small wave. “Thirty-six plus five. He’s my first. My mum says boys are always impatient.”

Jem began to lay out the contents of her maternity pack. It didn’t take an obstetrician to see that Madina was on the verge of a home delivery; within a minute of one contraction ending, she began to pant through the next.

“Allah!” She lowered her forehead to the mattress, her fingers clawing at the bedding. “Hospital, now. Quick!”