Season went back inside the house. Carl had switched off the air-conditioning, in response to a plea from the Mayor to save as much energy as possible, but there was a crosswise wind blowing that morning from the ocean, and it was tolerably cool. She called, ‘Sally? Are you dressed yet? Auntie Vee wants to know if we’d like some breakfast.’ There was no answer. She called, ‘Sally? Sally, are you upstairs?’

Again, there was silence. She frowned. She had seen Sally only a few minutes ago, taking off her pyjamas and laying out her new blue-chequered sun-dress. She said, ‘Sally?’ more quietly this time, and walked slowly towards the stairs.

She was just about to put her foot on the first stair when Sally’s voice from the kitchen said, ‘Mommy!’ in such an odd and off-key way that Season froze. She felt as if someone had slowly poured a carafe of ice-cold water down her back. Her hair tingled and even her nipples rose.

‘Sally?’ she asked, in a trembly voice. Then she was rushing along the corridor into the kitchen and screaming, ‘Sally! Sally – what’s wrong?’

She burst through the white louvred kitchen door and there they were. Five of them – tall, greasy-haired, dressed in black leather jackets, with chains and studs and pointed insignia – all of them except for the one who was holding Sally, who was blond and almost angelic-looking, and who was wearing a pale blue denim two-piece suit, and a white shirt, and a pale blue bootlace tie. He was twisting Sally’s arm around behind her back, and gripping his forearm against her throat, and he was smiling.

‘Don’t do anything silly. Mommy,’ he grinned. ‘I shouldn’t like to have to waste your baby. She’s too pretty to die, don’t you think?’

Season stood where she was, shuddering, cold. ‘My God,’ she said, in a voice as splintered as pieces of broken mirror. ‘My God, if you hurt her—’

One of the angels snorted in amusement. ‘Kind of touching, hunh, Oxnard?’

‘Oh, very,’ said Oxnard. His face was white, much whiter than any of the others, and so the grime on his cheekbones where his motorcycle goggles had been was far more pronounced. ‘A really moving example of motherly love.’ Season stared at Sally in horror. The wide-open eyes, the same straight nose as Ed’s, the softness around the mouth that was hers. In her blue-check dress she looked as innocent and vulnerable a a baby bird.

‘Mommy,’ appealed Sally. ‘Mommy, he’s hurting me.’ Season looked at the Angel called Oxnard. ‘What do you want?’ she asked, in an intense whisper. ‘What is it you want?’

Oxnard kept on smiling. Another Angel, with frizzy hair and a faceful of red zits, started to mime the actions of playing a violin, and humming a sentimental tune. The others shuffled their feet and laughed.