She looked left as she passed Blackfield Park, but to her dismay the white shapes she’d glimpsed there didn’t resolve themselves into patches of snow. There were too many of them, arranged in rows disappearing into the shadows.

She’d have liked to believe she was imagining the sight, but people were leaning out of their windows on Chapel Bank, overlooking the park, staring down at something below.

Somehow, the creatures were already in the village. How they’d managed that didn’t matter for now. At least the light was keeping them back; the closest rank of the things was right up against the park railings, the tips of their long figures straying onto the pavement. No-one, thankfully, had been stupid enough to go over to that side of the road, but there were rubberneckers on the pavement opposite, gawping.

Ellie resisted the temptation to shout out of her window for everyone to go home. She had to think. She couldn’t just start raving about monsters: there was no telling what Thelma Graham had been saying about her, or who might have been listening to it.

Bert. She didn’t want to believe it. She tried to convince herself he might have found a hiding place, like Kate Beck, but knew that wasn’t him. Besides, he’d lived alone; the creatures had surely known the house was inhabited, and wouldn’t have stopped till they’d found him. And she’d heard the gun firing. No. He’d gone down fighting.

Only this morning, he’d been banging on her door and getting her out of bed. He’d been beside her at Barrowman Farm, firing both barrels at the unseen sniper. He’d been by her side, and where’d she been when he’d needed her?

There’d been nothing she could do, except get herself killed: Bert would have understood that. But she’d liked the old sod; he’d been quiet and steady, with that sarky sense of humour that always appealed to Ellie. They hadn’t been close, but he’d been there. Solid. Part of the furniture, even the architecture. And now he was gone. The bastards had taken him and she’d done nothing to prevent it.

Well, what was that old saying? Don’t mourn, organise. Where’d she heard that? Noel, it might have been – it was a quote from an American union activist, framed and murdered by the cops. Funny choice of inspiration for a British bobby either way. But it fitted. There was stuff to do. And she had people to convince.

She’d been driving almost on autopilot, turning back onto Blackfield Grove, then Hollybeck Row. The Audi’s headlights caught the crowd still gathered outside the surgery. Christ, hadn’t they fucked off yet?

She parked on Hollybeck Row, realising too late that the crowd were between her and the surgery and swarming towards the car. Thelma Graham’s perm was bobbing above the crowd as if they were bearing her severed head as a trophy. I should be so lucky.