They went into a bedroom with no decoration. Single bed. One table. Old magazines on it. As welcoming as a dentist’s waiting room. But lived in: clothes on the floor, hanging out of drawers. They quickly searched, under the bed, in the wardrobe.

Ross realized that she could only feel slight traces of the gravity of the Sight about this place. That feeling put in her something close to panic until she reminded herself that that gravity could also be concealed, which was what you’d do if you were hiding an immensely powerful object in a place like this. The traps didn’t show up much either – or what use would they be?

She half expected to find an addict’s supply and paraphernalia, but didn’t. In the wardrobes there was a row of ancient dresses, the uniform of the ‘Londoner’ when out and about. She whizzed through them, patting them down when there might be a pocket. Nothing.

They finished with the bedroom, tried the tiny kitchen. They went through all the obvious hiding places: the grill; packets and cans in the cupboard; the freezer drawer of the fridge. How awful must it be, thought Ross, to have such an immense power in a place with so little ability to keep it safe. If you were keeping it for yourself, if you were hoping for it to save you when you died, you’d spend that life always on guard, always terrified.

Costain found a few traps as they explored and stopped Ross from walking right into one, in the breadbin. They didn’t seem to be protecting anything specific. This woman would have to live with these traps, having to remember all the time where they were.

Costain suddenly froze. Ross heard it too: the sound of someone outside the door. He motioned for her to be quiet. The best they could do would be to wait until the arrival had entered, then rush past her for the door. The best they could hope for was that she was unarmed. They would have to leap those tripwires.

‘Come on out, you cunts.’ The voice was familiar.

Costain looked at Ross, telling her to stay here. He stepped out of the kitchen. She let him. But the voice had used the plural. Maybe this was for the best. They hadn’t found anything. They’d have to try to make this woman an offer.

She followed Costain. Standing there was the young woman from the Goat and Compasses whom Sefton had spent so much time with, the one he’d said had sworn at him all the time. She was dressed more normally now, in a black T-shirt and jeans. She was looking at them with an expression of supreme disdain but she also looked hopeless, as lost as they were. ‘You’re too late,’ she said.

‘What do you—?’ began Costain.