She was shaking with anger when I found her in the orchard two days ago. I’d escaped unseen from the kitchen pantry, and Al was sitting under a walnut tree, the knuckles of her right hand red and raw. There was blood on the bark of the tree. Neither of us said anything for several minutes then Al launched herself forward and smacked the hard ground with both fists.

“Her fucking family!”

I didn’t need to ask who she was talking about.

“I want to punch Isaac.” The muscles in the side of her jaw clenched tight. “I want to put my fist in his smug, self-satisfied face. All those fucking people, Emma, and you were the only one to speak up. What’s wrong with everyone?”

She started to cry then, silently, sitting cross-legged on the ground with her hands covering her head. I sat down beside her, gently stroking her back until the sobs slowed and she straightened up and reached for her packet of cigarettes.

That was our last opportunity to talk in private. Isis and Cera joined us seconds later, saying they needed our help to clean out the chickens. They haven’t left us alone since. Even now, when they’re further down the line of mourners, I can still feel their eyes on us. It’s almost as though they know what we’re planning on doing.

“If we could have silence for the arrival of Ruth’s body, please.” Isaac’s voice rings out loud and clear through the garden as he walks across the patio. He is flanked by Johan and Gabe, each carrying a flare in their right hand and an incense bowl, dangling from chains, in their left. The firelight illuminates their faces, casting dark shadows under their eyes, cheekbones and chins. A cloud of smoke drifts after them. Six men step through the smoke. They’re carrying a body draped in a shawl and raised high on their shoulders, the grey, waxy face of a woman partially revealed.

It can only be Ruth.

The line of mourners on the riverbank parts as they approach the pyre. Al presses herself against me. I can feel her trembling through the thin material of her waterproof jacket.

“I don’t think I can do this.”

“You can.” Leanne looks across at her, her angular face peering out from beyond the swathes of material she’s fashioned into a headscarf. “You’re stronger than this.”

“I’m not. I’m really fucking not.”

She falls silent as the body is placed on the pyre, and Isaac reaches for the flare in Jacob’s hand. He holds it towards the dry leaves and kindling at the base. As a single flickering flame licks at the dry wood, Al yanks her hand from mine and sprints off into the darkness, back towards the house.