Silva remembered the day of her release from prison. Sharp words, a pile of civvy clothes, an officer handing her the letter announcing her formal dismissal from the army. She’d been marched to the gates and had stepped into another life. As she’d trudged away towards the main road, not really knowing what the hell to do next, she’d heard a familiar voice call out her name.

Rebecca!

She’d turned and there, a few paces away, stood her mother. Silva had collapsed in her arms, all the hardness and bravado of the past year gone, nothing but tears left.

‘You know what?’ Her father’s words cut into her thoughts. He’d turned from his study of the chauffeur’s head. ‘The ironic thing is she’s the one who’s dead in a military conflict and we’re still alive. You get how that works, because I’m afraid I don’t.’

‘I don’t get anything much at the moment.’

‘She was a journalist, for God’s sake.’ Her father shook his head. ‘Bloody wrong place. Bloody wrong time. If it was down to me I’d bomb the fuck out of the bastards and be done with it.’

‘We tried that. I was there, remember? And anyway, who exactly do you bomb?’

Her father said nothing for a few minutes. They drove through winding country lanes between hedges bloated with thick summer greenery. A church spire in the distance seemed to get no closer.

‘Are you going to carry on working as a postie?’

‘I’m on sick leave.’

‘You mean on account of your mother’s death? Compassionate leave?’

‘No, Dad. Sick leave.’ Silva tapped her head even though her father was now looking forwards again. ‘Mental health. Any sign of stress and they sign you off. Like you might contaminate the letters or something.’

‘And are you mental?’

‘I don’t know yet. I was pretty sure I was, but then I thought about what happened to me. Considering the circumstances I’m probably verging on being almost normal.’

‘That’s good to hear, Rebecca. Normal. Good to hear. Your grandmother was nutty, remember? Very difficult to deal with.’

‘She had dementia, Dad.’

‘Whatever you want to call it, she annoyed the hell out of me.’

They rounded a corner and the church was there. A thin spire touching a blue sky. A grassy bank surrounding an acre of graveyard. Cars parked on the verges. People waiting.