There was some commotion as a ladder was brought and laid against the mound and men’s voices quarrelled over whether it was safe to climb or better to wait for the arrival of the properly equipped fire brigade. He saw the reason for their urgency. A pair of naked legs dangled from the debris, shockingly tender against the tangle of iron. A barefoot child darted forward and began to clamber up the rungs of the ladder, and was ordered down and pulled into the road by a man who clipped him round the ear. A woman took the child’s arm and hurried him away.

Silas felt a presence behind him and knew instinctively she was there before he turned to confirm it. His rescuer, last seen in a bloody nightgown, now dressed in a high-necked black blouse and long black skirt. Her red hair was pinned in a loose bun and she held a handkerchief to her nose. Her eyes were swollen.

‘How did you hurt your face?’ he said.

‘My uncle, he was trying to help me. He did help me.’ Her voice was muffled but she kept the handkerchief in place. ‘He came down to get me and Alice and he pushed me up the stairs.’ She looked down the street. Silas followed her gaze to the pile of debris. ‘I thought Alice would be safer if she stayed on the bed. I couldn’t get the door open.’

‘Who is Alice?’

‘My cousin. She was with me in my bed when the house filled up with water and now we can’t find her.’

He followed her gaze down the street. There was no sign of the fire brigade, but a horse-drawn flatbed cart had arrived. Men jumped down from it and set about retrieving the body.

‘It’s a man,’ said Silas. ‘The body.’

He’d meant to reassure her, but the woman said, ‘Then what chance does a small girl stand?’

‘The little lass might have been rescued,’ said Silas. ‘Like I was.’

She removed the bloodstained handkerchief from her face and looked disinterestedly at the blood smeared in it. She cleared her throat. ‘What will you do?’

‘Find my lodgings an’ my dog. I were in a forge last night.’ He looked past her, down the road. Fred Sharrow flew through the air towards him, screaming but making no sound. Silas blinked. ‘I’m not from round ’ere. I come yesterday, looking for work.’

‘Then you are very unlucky.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘That’s daft. I am lucky. I am standin’ ’ere, alive.’

‘True,’ she said flatly.

There was a whistle from the street. ‘Oy! Gi’ us a hand, lad?’ Two men were trying to shift the tree trunk that lay in the path of the cart. Silas walked over, showing them the raw palms of his hands.

‘I can try,’ he said.

The trunk of the tree was astonishingly smooth and heavy, more like a rock than wood. Silas put all his effort into helping release it from the sticky mud and shift it to the side of the road, the mistreated muscles in his arms and legs quivering in protest. He straightened, breathing heavily, and went to lean against the cart, but the heaped bed was covered by a sheet and Silas could guess what was under that. He approached one of the men instead, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, wondering whether his nostrils would ever be clear of the horrible stench.