‘Where thou goin’?’

The man took off his cap and swiped beads of sweat from his forehead. ‘Workhouse. They’re layin’ out the bodies there, for folk to come and identify.’

‘Is that near to Malin Bridge?’

‘Nah, lad. It’s in town.’

‘Then which way is it to Malin Bridge?’

‘Opposite to the way we’re goin’. Thanks for tha help,’ the man called back as the cart trundled away.

Silas looked back at the house, at the gaping wound in the gable end through which the wave had poured. The houses beyond on the rising slope of the street appeared unscathed. The woman with the red hair had disappeared. He had never asked her name, nor given his. He was a stranger here. If he had drowned last night would his parents, the people in his village, ever know about it? He was untethered. Anything might happen.

He stood in the early sunlight and clenched his fists, focusing on the pain in his hands to fight the wave of panic that threatened to engulf him. There were more people on the street now. A man was stuffing the dead dog into a sack. Silas took stock. He was hungry and had no money to buy food. He needed directions to his lodgings. The sooner he returned to Mrs Armitage’s cottage the better. He’d left his satchel hanging in the kitchen, he remembered now. There were clean clothes in it, and money.

He walked a few paces along the filthy pavement. The crowd had dispersed now, except for an elderly man dressed in dusty black trousers, waistcoat and jacket who was scoring lines in the mud with the end of his walking stick. He might know the way to Malin Bridge.

The man peered up at Silas, wonderment on his face.

‘It came and it went,’ he said. His eyes were crinkled to slits in his crumpled face. ‘Just like that, son. It came and it went.’

Chapter 13

Harriet stood on the threshold of the kitchen and put her hand to her mouth, but the taste of the foul muck was already in it. A layer of mud she reckoned to be a foot deep covered the floor like a grotesque carpet. The dresser lay flat, shards of broken crockery sprouting around it. The table was upturned by the back door, as if it had tried to escape, legs poking into the air like a half-buried insect. The fireplace was a ruin of soaked kindling and coals.

The stench came from the grave.

Harriet shrieked when, from behind, Walter put his hand on the doorframe above her head and leaned into the room to take a look. He smelled of sourness, of rotten eggs.

He ignored her, bending to pick up the large iron skillet. The mud released it with a wet, smacking sound.

‘Uncle, where have you been?’

He turned bright, empty eyes on her. ‘Where have I been? I’ve been searching for Alice. I haven’t found her yet. You know,’ he said, his tone conversational, ‘it’s quite bizarre that just a few yards up the hill you wouldn’t know anything had occurred. And then you step in the other direction, and there’s carnage. I walked to the town hall where some of the survivors went. They’re sitting round the fire telling their stories and people are already turning up with clothes and food for them. That’s heartening, eh, Harriet?’