But no, this was bigger than her. She was just one person, after all. And if the pouch was malfunctioning, or worse, if babies in the pouch were developing a new type of infertility that meant their children could never be born, then it was not what she believed or what Holly believed that mattered. It was about a technology that had gone wrong, and it was about finding a solution – whatever that would be. So no matter what happened when they got to that lighthouse, this was not about Eva or Piotr, it was not about Holly or her children or her grandchildren, and it was not about the deep silent ache that Eva felt every time she thought about them.

Karl hesitated, standing at the back of the lift, Cris and the director in front of him. What had she said her name was? He couldn’t remember. The inside of the lift was panelled with mirrors – wherever he looked there it was, his face staring back at him, in between the stranger and his Cris. Karl’s black beard, which he always kept trimmed, kept rounded, was more grey now than anything. His usually wide-open brown eyes seemed watery in this light. He was starting to look old, he thought to himself. He was heading fast into the latter half of middle age. Not that he minded. Until this week he’d been rather enjoying the thought of growing old. He’d pictured himself sitting in his reclining chair with Will – a toddler now, perhaps, or a confident crawler, climbing up to sit on his lap, or sliding back down his legs again. Reading a picture book, perhaps, about the colours of the world or the times of the day, Will cuddled in under his arm the way young children did when they were almost, but not quite, ready to go to sleep.

Cris was trying to catch his eye in the mirror, to give him a smile of reassurance. They were still rising through the building – according to the button lights they were going to the top floor. He didn’t know what they’d find there. He closed his eyes, blocking out his reflection, and saw instead the dead body of his grandson. He felt something pulsing uncomfortably through his arms – adrenaline, anger. Someone was to blame for what had happened, but not Kaz, not Rosie. He was sure of that. He stretched out his fingers, then curled them tight into his palms.