His words were blown aside. The Editor had begun to inspect the pages towards the back of the book and his blood was up. ‘Who the fuck drew this page?! Can’t you see, man, that it’s precisely the same shape as the one before? I don’t give a fuck if it’s just moved; this is a daily newspaper not a monthly magazine. If you can’t stick the pace, then fuck off. Give me that pencil. I don’t care if the page has gone, you’ll have to get it back.’

The Editor’s staff were warmed by his wrath. Having been in fear for their lives, they greeted these old terrors like old friends. After all, what did a tongue-lashing from the Editor mean but that everything was going back to normal? And between them buzzed the word that he’d released into the atmosphere: hijack. It spawned and multiplied, whirring from desk to desk – ‘Do you think they hijacked it because they saw the pap?’; ‘If someone decides to hijack a bus, you know there’s nothing to stop them’ – and these hijackings, each no more substantial than a breath, swarmed and filled the air, becoming incontrovertible in their ubiquity.

‘Imagine being on a bus when it’s hijacked; how fucking scary that must be.’

‘Those poor bastards, just getting on a bus somewhere and then this.’

‘It could have been any of us.’

‘Well, it couldn’t have been me. I’d’ve taken the train.’

‘That would have been even worse, wouldn’t it? And lucky, really, that it didn’t happen on a busy street.’

They pulled together with the re-found strength of oarsmen who are pulling out of danger. Will’s heart began to sing again yesterday’s song of being one among many. Questions and answers sped between him, Max and Jeremy like the shuttle in the loom. He only wished that Rosie would be a part of it; she was leaning in to her screen as if trying to stare into its depths.