He finds it peaceful here, a small enclave within the busy, breath-taking city, like the eye at the center of a storm. Here he will sit, until the start of his shift, on a wooden bench with a small brass plaque. Sometimes he gets so lost in memory he ends up late for work. So often in fact that he has a reputation for tardiness and poor timekeeping among the other volunteers. It has become a running joke. Speedy Dave. So early, he makes himself late.

This morning is different though. As he enters the garden he glances once at the giant stainless-steel ant sculpture made from scrap metal and idly wonders, as he often does, if any of the parts were made with steel he had a hand in tempering. But then, as his eyes swing back round to the rose garden along the left-hand side, he sees something that causes him to stop short.

At first—and later he’ll laugh at the absurdity of this notion—he sees it as a living organism. Some new plant he hasn’t seen before, pushing its way out between the succulents. Five stubby branches and a long, thick trunk. And then, of course, he realizes what it really is. A human arm. Five fingers loosely clenched, as though it has begun crawling its way toward the path.

The blood drains from Dave’s face and his knees lock. He stands perfectly still, staring at the hand. It seems to beckon him in some way, even as it crawls its way ever closer. Come over here. Join me. Then, behind him, a woman screams, and as though the noise has given them permission, his legs give way beneath him and Dave falls to his knees on the gravel path.

•   •   •

Detective Constable Mina Rabbani braces the desk with the back of her neck and head, and lifts, shoving a folded-up copy of yesterday’s Sheffield Star as far under the front left leg as she can manage before the weight becomes too much for her and she has to let go. She hears the monitor above her rock back and forth and then settle, and breathes a sigh of relief. That would really go down well with IT if she managed to smash her PC so early into her new role.

PC. Personal computer. Or Police Constable. Except it’s DC now. Detective Constable. She wonders whether she’ll ever get used to that. She knew there was nothing particularly glamorous about the role but she’d hoped she might get to see a bit more action than fixing a wobbly desk. Still, it means something. She finds herself smiling. It means a lot.