Groveley Farm, standing in one corner of the meadow, had belonged to a cantankerous old sod called Eric Lorne, who’d been constantly threatening to take a pot at hikers and tourists taking the footpath across his land. Ellie had had words with him about that more than once, although looking at the blackened shell of the farmhouse, she doubted she ever would again: it must have been the site of one of the fires they’d seen last night. The burned-out house on Church Street had been another; the third, Ellie guessed was somewhere on Smithy Lane.

Beyond the farmhouse, more or less dead centre in the meadow, was a sprawling heap of wood. People were traipsing over the trodden, muddy grass carrying armfuls of wood and other flammables to add to it, mostly smashed-up furniture; half a dozen others were sorting the heap into smaller, neater piles. Overseeing it all, smoking a cigarette, was Ernie Stasiolek.

“Ernie,” Ellie called; he turned and waved, then held out a packet of Lucky Strike as she approached. “Since when?” she said; she’d never seen Ernie smoke.

He shrugged, not meeting her eyes. Ellie realised he’d given up for Maz and the kids. “Thanks,” she said quickly, to cover her embarrassment, and took one. He gave her a light; Ellie coughed as the smoke caught the back of her throat.

“You’re welcome.” A grim half-smile touched Ernie’s lips. “Think a lot of us gave up giving up this morning.”

This morning: it was nearly afternoon now, and how long till it was dark again? Three hours, four; five at the absolute maximum. Ellie nodded at the woodpiles. “Picked the spot, then?”

“Yeah. Well away from the beck, so it’s pretty dry here. Plus the stream-bed’s pretty deep. High banks – get very dark down there at night, even with a fire. So I thought we’d best keep clear of it.” He drew on his cigarette. “Need to make sure we’ve got plenty of water,” he added, absently. “Bottled, I mean. Don’t think I’d trust the stream water for drinking.”

Ellie had no idea how much bottled water was left in Barsall, but suspected a shortage of that was the least of their problems. “Think it’ll be big enough?”

“I think so. There’s sixty, maybe seventy of us left, I heard.”

Ninety percent of Barsall’s population, wiped out in a single night. And another night to come. “We’ll be ready for them this time,” Ellie told him.

“If you say so.” Ernie looked far from certain. Ellie couldn’t say she was either.

“Hey, Ellie.” Laura Caddick tramped, a bundle of chair- and table-legs and broken-up furniture panels lashed to her back. “Heard about our visitor?”

“Visitor?” Ellie looked at Ernie, who shrugged.

“The Harper girl.”

“Jess?”