From outside the house, without warning, there was a dull, echoless thump. Oxnard raised his head. ‘What was that?’ he said. ‘Gene – what the hell was that?’ Immediately, without any conscious effort. Season expelled him.

There was another thump, louder than the first. The Angel called Gene opened the kitchen door and went out on to the white-painted wooden landing outside. Season, clenched-up and shaking, backed away from the sink, and Vee climbed slowly to her feet.

‘Oxnard – it’s the bikes, dammit!’ yelped Gene. ‘Somebody’s blown up the bikes!’

Oxnard shouted, ‘What? What the hell do you mean?’ and stormed across to the door. Outside the house, on the driveway, the Angels had parked their five motorcycles; and now two of them were blazing fiercely.

That’s my bike!’ yelled Oxnard. ‘That’s my BMW, for God’s sake!’

He started to scamper down the wooden stairs, his shirt-tails flapping in the breeze. The Angel called Gene followed closely behind him. Together, they ran across the driveway until they reached the fiery motorcycles, shielding their faces against the flames. But it was far too late: the motorcycles’ polished chrome was already brown from heat, and the fuel tanks were spouting blazing fuel all over the cylinders. The air rippled, and there was a strong smell of burning rubber.

Oxnard turned around. ‘If those people did this—’ he raged. ‘If any one of those people did this—’

He didn’t get the chance to say any more. There was a sharp, distinctive crack, which any expert would have recognised as the report of a powerful hunting rifle. Oxnard’s shirt was blasted with a pattern of bright red blood, and he toppled backwards as if someone had given him a shove in the chest.

The Angel who had been holding Carl said, ‘What goes on out there?’ and took two or three steps towards the door. Carl lunged for the cutlery drawer, tugged it right out on to the floor with a crash, and scrabbled for a knife. The other Angel tried to stop him, but Carl shoved him away with his elbow. The Angel missed his footing, reached for the edge of the sink, and steadied himself. But then Carl was on top of him with maddened ferocity, both arms upraised, and a twelve-inch carving knife in each hand. The Angel raised one hand to protect himself, but Carl’s first carving knife chopped right through the palm of his hand and out through the back. The second knife caught the Angel in the side of the neck, and crunched almost six inches through solid muscle. The boy reeled, bleeding, and trying uselessly to shake the first knife out of his hand.

The tall Angel at the door had gone by now, running down the outside stairs and trying to reach his bike. There was another brisk rifle shot, and he staggered, tripped, and toppled sideways into a flower-bed, dying noisily amongst the azaleas.