Joda detested violence in all its forms – another reason he’d never raised a hand to his daughter. He had witnessed it more than once, as a child and as a man, both in Nigeria and in Britain: there was no glamour to it, only pain. So even though it would have been relatively easy, out here, to purchase a shotgun or smallbore rifle, he’d rejected the idea out of hand. Not even a baseball bat in case of burglars or rowdy customers. For the first time ever, he regretted that decision.

Again the thing’s head altered its position with small, shifting movements, until it pointed directly at him. Then it was still again, apart from its flapping shroud – yes, a shroud – but the wind was no longer the only sound. There were thin, pattering noises, like soot falling in a chimney. But the fireplace was to Joda’s left, and the sounds came from his right.

He didn’t want to look away from the thing, fearing both what it might do if his attention left it, and what he might be about to see. But he had to know what he faced if he was to cope with it. He had Barbara and Charlotte to consider.

And so he turned and looked.

There were four front windows on the ground floor of the Bell, and each was now occupied by a creature like the first. The same crouched, emaciated forms and snouted heads, the same thin, long-fingered hands splayed on the glass. Joda retreated across the bar, and their heads swivelled, tilting towards him. A gust of wind brushed the shroud partially away from one of them, revealing more of its face – if you could call it that – than Joda wanted to see, but also revealing that it had no eyes.

Blind; the things were blind. They must hunt by sound and scent. Perhaps it was safer to remain still. But every instinct he possessed told him to get away from them and find a weapon to keep them from his family.

The lamp in the alcove went out; the wind seemed to grow louder as well, and Joda realised that the faint hum from the refrigerator behind the bar had stopped. The power had gone.

Something slammed into the pub’s front door. The noise was shattering, and Joda leapt. The door shifted in its frame; another blow followed, and then another.

The long pale fingers clawed at the windows. How long before they realised the glass was so much weaker than the wooden door? A weapon; Joda must find a weapon. If only he’d put even a sawn-off pool cue under the counter –

A pool cue. He ran across the snug, around the bar. The pool balls went into the table’s pockets at the end of the night, but the cues were left on the table. He snatched one up. It would make a serviceable club; in a pinch, he could stab with the narrow end. Better than nothing.