Hardly anyone speaks to her. She can live with the whispers, but can she live without London? And the dancing. And Edna . . . clutches her hand. “Are you all right, luv?” Not Edna. A man in a yellow and green uniform. The policewoman is looking at her. It makes her uncomfortable. She isn’t sure . . . whether they are safe up here. “Safe?” says Edna. “There’s a war on. No one’s safe!” It’s cold on the rooftop, bitterly so. She clutches Edna’s hand and they listen to the whine of the Messerschmitts overhead and then the whistle of the falling bombs. Lily closes her eyes. She knows this is the end. There’s nothing left. “Edna?” But Edna can’t hear her over the crack of explosions and the wail of the sirens. Then Edna looks down into her eyes. They don’t need to speak. They have each other. They can read each other’s thoughts. Lily reaches up . . .

But Time is coming unspun. The monster from the darkness is almost upon her. She remembers now, but it is all too much and too fast . . . Her father stares at her, the disapproval writ large on . . . his screwed-up face as he bawls . . . and shouts and screams . . . she can feel the strength in his hands . . . covered in blood . . . choking the life from Cynthia . . . no, Edna! Poor Edna . . . safe on the rooftop but . . . there’s a war on, no one’s safe . . . she smashes the bottle down on his head . . . thump, thumpety-thump . . . and Edna smiles her lipless smile . . . wrapped in Edna’s arms while the bombs fall around them and everything burns . . .

Lily remembers.

—

Tyler sits in the doorway of the incident room watching the Old Vicarage collapse in on itself. Every now and then his eyes travel across the gravel driveway to the covered remains of Sally-Ann Digby.

His head still grumbles but the wound has been patched up, and with the painkillers he reluctantly agreed to take beginning to kick in, he can just about bear it. Doggett’s fingers drum against the roof of his car. It starts to rain.

“Perhaps you could stop that now,” he says, and Doggett’s hand does indeed stop. For once. His fingers hang suspended in midair for a moment. Then he places both hands on the back of his head and exhales loudly. His leg starts to jiggle, the squeaking leather of his shoe taking up the rhythm.

“You should be in the hospital.”

“Guy Daley got my ride.”

“He’s going to be all right,” Doggett says, but it isn’t clear who he’s trying to convince. The leg stops. “It looks like they’re done with him, then.” He nods to the back of the remaining ambulance where Oscar is being treated by the paramedics. “What about you and him?”