He stumbled forwards, out onto the main street, feel­ing dreadfully exposed. A few steps further and he reached the gate of the Yellow House. He reached out for the iron handle and pushed, hoping it wasn’t locked, and to his relief, it opened and let him through.

His relief vanished when he saw the lock: smashed, twisted, hanging open. He tiptoed through, into the court­yard, trying to read what had happened here. His whole body was alert, ready to run or fight. There was a reddish-brown smear on the tiles, broken pots and soil spilling out.

‘Dad! Mum!’ he yelled now, heedless of his safety.

He ran up the steps to the front door, but it was bar­ricaded from inside: something heavy had been pushed up 197against it. He hammered hard on the worn wood: ‘Is anyone there? It’s Joe!’

He cursed himself. He should have been here. Whatever had happened, he should have been here to face it, with his family, where he belonged. Panic gripped him now. His hands were slippery and damp as he tried every window, every handle he could find. He was locked out of his parents’ house.

Eventually, he hauled over a bench, tipped it and climbed up, reaching for a first-floor window ledge. He pulled himself up on shaking arms, and slithered through, head-first, landing hard on the floorboards in his old bedroom.

Barely glancing around, he noted it was untouched, still neat and clean, then he was opening the door, listening hard, and padding out into the gloom beyond.

A sharp blade pressed into his chest. He could feel the cold iron bite into his skin. ‘Stop right there,’ a voice hissed.

‘It’s Joe! Who’s that?’ He raised his hands cautiously, peering forwards into the darkness.

The voice swore loudly. ‘I nearly killed you, bloody fool!’

‘Matteo!’ He rubbed his chest where the sword had been, then found himself hugged hard by the old cook he’d known all his life.

‘Just in time, lad. You’re just in time,’ Matteo said hoarsely. ‘This way, they’re down here.’ He led the way down the main stairs. As they passed a gap in the shutters, Joe saw that Matteo looked exhausted. ‘Joe, I’m sorry. We tried. We fought back, all of us. But there were too many of them, and we had to retreat. They killed Gabriel, and …’ 198

Firelight danced in the largest room, casting shadows on the walls. Matteo gestured to the darkest corner, where a mattress had been piled with blankets, and a familiar shape lay curled amongst them.

Joe dashed over and fell on his knees. His mother was asleep. Her face was in shadow, but he could see clearly where they’d hit her. A bruise bloomed across the whole of her left cheek. He leaned his face close, till he could feel the flutter of her breath, and be sure she was alive.

‘Joe?’ she mumbled, trying to open her eyes. ‘Joe! You came.’

‘Of course I came! As soon as I heard.’ He hugged her carefully, trying not to hurt her. ‘Mum. I’m sorry. I wish I had been here.’