It was then – here, now – that I saw Miss Hahn. Miss Hahn! She was emerging with a strange man from the air-raid shelter. She was describing something with her hands. A shaggy tree, perhaps. Or a fire. And she was laughing. At herself, very possibly (as she is generally wont to do). I tried to focus in on her (it was no effort, none at all) hoping thereby to dispel the golden horde, but instead of moving back, or away, or behind, in awe (as they liked to do with Mrs Meadows), they seemed especially drawn to her. An audible sigh was raised and they began crawling towards her en masse.

How to describe my response? Relief? Horror? The urge to simply flee? The still stronger urge to protect her? But then how, exactly, to go about that? How might an unarmed mortal – a mere man, like myself – set about vanquishing the Lost and the Lonely and the Horribly Abandoned throughout All of Eternity (or thereabouts)?

In that instant she saw me. And her hands dropped. Her eyes widened.

‘Mr Huff!’ she exclaimed (her companion now quite forgotten). ‘But I thought you’d already …’

Yes. Gone.

‘I had,’ I confirmed, ‘I was.’ Then I pointed towards the cottage. ‘I think I may have left my knitting. On the back porch.’

‘Oh.’ Miss Hahn didn’t move for a second, and then, perhaps sensing my exhaustion (or my signal inability to shift myself from the spot). ‘I’ll quickly run and fetch it for you, shall I?’

She turned to her companion. ‘I’ll be back with you before you know it, Mr Tyler.’

Then off she strode. Through the heaving masses.

Mr Tyler and I appraised each other, warily.

‘Ryan Tyler.’ Mr Tyler walked forward and held out his hand.

‘Franklin Huff.’

We shook.

‘Carla was just giving me a guided tour of the air-raid shelter.’ He smiled.

‘Why?’ I asked (somewhat aggressively, I suppose. But I was irritated by the intimacy of his address).

‘Because I asked her to.’ Mr Tyler shrugged. ‘I’m a surveyor. I have a great affection for WW2 memorabilia.’

‘Well, I can only hope that your interest has been assuaged,’ I murmured, ‘because I’m afraid the tour is now over. Miss Hahn and I have some important business to attend to.’

‘I have an appointment booked,’ Mr Tyler maintained.

‘Then you’d better scuttle off to keep it.’ I waved him on, airily.

‘Here,’ he finished off.

‘What for?’

‘An asbestos search.’

‘There isn’t any,’ I informed him, just as Miss Hahn returned, clutching the knitting.

‘There isn’t any asbestos in the cottage,’ I repeated, this time for Miss Hahn’s benefit.

‘Really?’ Miss Hahn handed me the sock. The golden people – many crawling or dragging themselves along on their knees – rippled around her like tentacles surrounding the mouth of a sea anemone (Miss Hahn was the mouth. Obviously. The crux. The centre. Although with anemones it’s always worth bearing in mind that the mouth also generally serves as the anus. Which isn’t nearly such a pretty idea).