The woods were gone. Swept off like crumbs from a table. To fall where? The enormity of the disaster was far greater than he had comprehended, so great that he could not reckon it out, could not find the edges of it and pull it into a recognisable shape that he might deal with it. He could not breathe.

Gunson dismounted outside the Methodist church in Malin Bridge and walked carefully over the layer of dirt that petered out a short distance beyond the graveyard gate. The door to the church stood open. He peered inside. If he had hoped for a few moments of quiet respite he would not find it here. The place was packed with people, huddled in pews or standing in the aisles, a chorus of voices swooping and diving. A man carrying the handles of a large metal cauldron in his meaty fists gently nudged him with an elbow. ‘’Scuse me, sir.’

‘Forgive me.’ Gunson flattened himself against the door to allow the man to pass. ‘Forgive me.’

A tiny, white-haired woman followed, the bulging sack over her shoulder nearly as big as she. With a grunt, she dropped her burden in the nave. Breadcakes, bowls and spoons rolled out that were quickly collected by the congregation who then queued up for the soup being doled out. A bowl was pushed into his hands, a spoon offered, and Gunson obediently joined the queue and collected his ladle of soup. The pews were full so he lowered himself down to sit on the flagstones. He would be one of these people, for a while. Their chatter washed over him like pebbles in the tide. A respite after all.

He continued his journey, witnessing horror piled on horror. Where the Loxley met the mighty Don, his worst fears were realised. The deluge had blown apart brick and stone buildings and bridges as if they had been made of straw. People swarmed over the ravaged ground. He recognised the Chief Constable, on horseback, directing a gang of men who were trying to lift a tilt hammer, a giant piece of machinery weighing God knew what that had been flung from an exploding factory and carried on the wave. There was a shout and a lifeless body was pulled from under it, and then another. Gunson rode on, averting his eyes from the sight of two men carrying the limp body of a woman between them, her long blonde hair trailing.

He made one more stop on his way towards the centre of town, dismounting at the iron footbridge that straddled the Don as it passed under Ball Street. He would have to ride on, to cross the river at Lady’s Bridge or perhaps even beyond, if that ancient structure had also been destroyed by the wall of water. What was left of the Ball Street bridge dangled into the debris-choked river, twisted like a corkscrew. Cold iron should not be able to adopt such a shape.

Gunson turned south towards Division Street a shade after midday, according to the clock tower on the roof of the Green Lane foundry. There was no sign of the catastrophe here. He was relieved to be back on the familiar cobbles and to be invisible to the townspeople scurrying hither and thither, the calamity on all their lips. He went to the stable block first and took his time settling the borrowed horse, afraid to face his wife, to admit his failure.