There were benches all along the High Street, including one almost directly outside the church; Milly sat, peeled the wrapper off the fag packet and stuffed it in her jacket pocket. She’d never been a litterbug and didn’t see much point starting now. Again, she nearly laughed: It’s Armageddon, please dispose of your litter carefully. But the small things mattered, even now. She was who she was, and she’d hold fast to that whatever happened.

She lit a cigarette. Her fingers shook and she was tired: the head-rush from the fag rocked her back on the bench. She smoked for a few minutes, then pinched the cigarette out half-smoked and returned it to the packet. She folded her hands in her lap, bowed her head and tried to pray.

What to ask for? If this was the end, it was likely past time for praying. But she shook her head. Again, she’d go on as she always had: if that wasn’t good enough for God, it was too late to change it. And she didn’t know for sure this was the end of the world. There’d been nothing about those creatures in the Book of Revelations, and Madeleine Lowe’s cross hadn’t protected her against them. For now, at least, she’d act as if the creatures were a natural disaster like a flood or earthquake. Help whomever she could, however she could, and pray: for the strength to get through it, and for mercy on the living and the dead.

So she prayed for those things, then leant back on the bench and relit her half-smoked cigarette. Finish this, then go back in.

The High Street was mostly empty. Laura Caddick was smoking outside the church, slouching wearily back against the wall; a man drank from a tin cup on a nearby bench. On another bench, a woman rocked back and forth, face in hands. Milly trod out her cigarette, got up, and started towards her.

“The fuck?” said Laura Caddick.

Milly turned. Laura now stood bolt-upright, leaning forward like a hunting dog and staring towards the war memorial, beyond which a tiny figure – very small, very thin – was tramping determinedly past Ellie Cheetham’s house, wrapped in bulky, ill-fitting clothes and carrying a heavy backpack. Under a luridly-coloured bobble-hat was a small white face, taut with pain: Jess Harper.

“The fuck’s she doing here?” said Laura, striding forward. The man on the bench got up, too.

Shit. Milly glanced back at the rocking woman; she’d have to wait for now. Milly went across the street at a fast clip, aiming to reach Jess before the others.

“What the fuck do you want?” Laura shouted as Jess reached the memorial. “The fuck do you want here?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Milly broke into a short run. “Take it easy. Jess?”

The girl blinked, then focused on her. “Dr Emmanuel?”