Maybe twenty or thirty of them remained. Noel was there, and Laura Caddick; her gun laid down beside her, hugging Tara and the baby close and crying without sound: Milly saw her tears in the candlelight. Reuben was silent now, too; the dog hunched, lowered down onto his front paws, braced to attack the first intruder to enter the building.

She could see Amy and Kevin Lee from the Chinese, who’d sheltered Noel during that first terrible attack. Chris Brailsford was there too, but not his parents; nor were John and Victoria Kennard anywhere in sight. If the missiles hadn’t killed them, they’d been taken trying to flee Groveley Meadow. They’d had to move quickly, and the bastard things were relentless in bringing down stragglers.

Milly wanted to weep; she’d heard people screaming as they were taken, people begging for help, and been able to do nothing. The same with the others. All they’d been able to do was keep running. What else could she do? Yes, they’d been afraid. Course they fucking had. But worse, there’d been no chance. Nothing Milly or anyone else could do. No one. Nothing. You ran and left people behind because you wanted to live, and tried not to think about the people you couldn’t help.

No sign of the Cooper family either, not even the little boy they’d taken in. She hoped she might have missed them in the crowd, but as she stared around the church she knew she hadn’t. That was every survivor from Halliwell Way gone, unless Ellie made it.

Phil Robinson was there, but, Milly was almost certain, in body only. He sat in silence now, gazing ahead; occasionally he smiled, but not in answer to anything around him.

And meanwhile, the creatures crawled.

This was it, the end of things; they’d have no chance against the next attack. Their lights would be put out in seconds, and after that the things from the hill would reap one last harvest of skin and flesh: hides to wear and meat to shred with those yellow rat’s teeth.

She’d seen what they’d done to Madeleine Lowe; heard the sounds like wallpaper being ripped from a wall, as they peeled men and women – even children – like fruit, sounds almost drowned out by the screaming. Milly tried to imagine the pain and couldn’t. It was the kind of thing you’d expect in Hell.

St Bartholomew had died like that, flayed alive, but Milly doubted she’d the strength to face it. She was crying, too, she realised – like Laura, in silence. Or trying to. But a loud, racking sob escaped her.

“Mill.” Noel drew her close. She clung to him, but inside she was empty; she was alone. Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit.