He sighed. ‘Okay. I won’t go.’ The concession was too easy, but Petra needed to believe him. If they stayed away, if they didn’t help them, the show would run its course and Metamuse would leave and everyone in Leamington would be okay. Petra believed she had enough control to prevent the inevitable.

He hadn’t said it categorically – I promise I won’t go to the show tonight, Petra – and she should have let it bother her more. Instead of making a flask of coffee and heading back to wait pointlessly at the hospital, like a character in an American TV show with nothing better to do, she should have gone straight to Vincent’s house and explained everything to him. Despite the fact that he didn’t seem to be interested in seeing her again.

As it happened, Helena had been moved to the general ward first thing in the morning and was subject to normal visiting hours. Petra had showed her face at the shop and Suki shooed her out, so she sat and doodled in the waiting room until two.

Helena was fine, already uncomfortable in bed, no oxygen required, the drip line out and taking mild painkillers by mouth. Dr Saidi had explained that the repair on the rupture had worked perfectly and there had been no adverse effects, and it was likely she’d be discharged in the morning. By four, Petra could tell that Helena was getting bored by her – probably wanted her peace to read her book, or stare at the football replays on the ward’s TV with Olafur Arnalds in her ears. Anything better than Petra’s guilty and cloying attempts at making up for her initial failure.

She texted Vincent. <Are you home? Can I come visit?>

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* * *

When she got to Vincent’s house, she had to double check the number to make sure it was the right place. It was a clear, bright evening, the sinking orange sun warming the street – so different from the squally storm of the night less than a week before, when she’d first been here. But something felt different about Vincent’s house, and at first Petra couldn’t figure out what had caused the change.

Then she noticed that the bulbs that had been springing up in the beds along the short path to the front door were drooping and depleted, brown husks of the fresh growth she’d seen before. The bush she’d pushed through towards the bay window that night was dropping its leaves too, as if it was late autumn rather than early spring. The brown decay made the garden look burned and poisoned.