“Got to,” said Jess. “Only chance we’ve got.” For Joel. For Tara. For herself, too, if she hoped to have anything like the life she wanted, should anything remain of the once-familiar world. Or indeed, any life at all.

Tara bit her lip. “Be careful, then,” she said, then surprised Jess – and quite possibly herself – by pulling her into a clumsy, one-armed hug.

Jess patted her back, not knowing what else to do. “You as well.”

They separated awkwardly. Jess went off without looking back.

They set off much later than Ellie would have liked, close to three o’clock. Today was the 21st of December: the Winter Solstice, the longest night. The things under the hills would never be stronger than tonight; of course this would be the occasion of their Dance. With a little over an hour before the sun went down, they had to reach Barrow Woods.

Ellie and the others walked out of the village, into the shadows of the winter dusk. A few people nodded to them and called out “good luck” or similar sentiments; Laura Caddick raised a hand in a gesture half-wave and half-salute as they passed, met Ellie’s eyes and had given a stern nod, all the while somehow conveying the sentiment that she wished she was going with her and bloody well would be if not for that annoying chest wound – not that it seemed to be incapacitating her at all. Behind Laura, Tara, still cradling the baby, waved to Jess as they passed. Jess smiled and waved back, and they carried on.

The last of Milly’s patients had been helped or carried to Groveley Meadow. A sorry parade of the halt and lame by any standards; God knew how many of them would last the night, with or without the creatures.

The Harpers’ second tractor – pretty much the only functional motor vehicle they had left – had been moved there too; if they were still alive in the morning, maybe someone could use it to go and look for help. Its headlights were intact, too: any light source was precious.

Laura and Tara Caddick – Tara with Jess Harper’s baby on her back like a papoose, which Milly was still struggling to get used to – helped Noel and the Brailsfords organise what defences they still had. Shotguns loaded with flare cartridges, the fires they’d built, and one other weapon. They’d decanted petrol into bottles to make Molotov cocktails – mixed with liquid soap so it would stick to whatever it spilled on.

Napalm. God. Milly had seen pictures of what that stuff had done to kids in Vietnam. Vile, evil stuff: the Devil’s own. Fitting enough, though, for those things of ancient night.