‘We’re almost there,’ said Ed, in a flat voice. ‘The Snowmans’ house is up on the left.’

‘You seriously believe it’s still standing?’ asked Peter.

Ed didn’t answer. Ever since they had turned their convoy off the Pacific Coast Highway on to Topanga Canyon Boulevard, and seen the charred and devastated hills, his stomach had been rigid as a football with fear. The bushfire must have swept all the way down the canyon unchecked, with no firefighters and no water-dumping aircraft to hold it back; and the chances of anybody having survived it were almost absurd. Please God, thought Ed, as he reached the turn in the road where the Snowmans’ driveway came down – please God don’t let me find them burned.

The mailbox was still there, its post charred, its paint burned off; but Ed could distinctly make out the name C. Snowman. He turned the Chevy up the drive until he came to the parking area in front of the house.

From the outside, in the darkness, the house didn’t look too bad. But when Ed climbed down from the wagon and crunched his way closer across the drifts of ashes, he could see that the interior was completely burned out.

Della came up behind him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

Ed clambered his way over fallen beams and blackened skeletal furniture until he reached the place which had once been the living-room. Incongruously, one part of the living-room wall still stood, and attached to it was a white telephone, drooping and distorted by heat. Ed almost expected it to ring, and to hear voices from the past. Next to the phone, still half-legible, were the words: ‘Ed Hardesty called from South Burlington Farm. Says he’s on his way to LA.’

‘The cop who wrote that said the place was empty,’ Ed remarked. ‘With any luck, they didn’t try to come back. But the question is – where are they now?’

‘I can tell you that,’ said a keen, sharp voice.

Ed turned around, squinting against the glare of the convoy’s headlights to see who was talking.

‘Who’s that?’ he asked. Della stepped to one side, and raised her pump-gun.

‘No need to be afraid,’ said the voice. ‘I’m not carrying a gun or nothing.’

‘Step into the light where I can see you,’ said Della. There was a hesitant, shuffling sound, and then a small, soot-smudged man emerged into the headlight beam. He looked like a grubby, tattered, erratic second cousin of Donald Pleasence. His jacket was singed at the back, and he wore burnt brown mittens.

‘Pearson’s the name,’ he said, brushing ash from his sleeves. ‘Longtime resident of Topanga Canyon and environs. You looking for the folks who used to live here?’