As Flo and her entourage disappear, the neighbours, Morag and Sheila file into the dining room where Tony’s body lies hidden. Their work is about to begin.

* * *

Bedclothes seal Flo’s lower body and legs. Her two thin arms lie upon the covers. A small regal bird. Her thinning hair is brushed up and back from her forehead like a crown. Her motionless, unblinking eyes are open and she watches the window, her expression peaceful.

Jess and Izzy lie on the bed, on either side of Flo. Izzy, her face tear-stained, sniffles. Flo and Jess each hold one of Izzy’s little hands.

All of the windows are wide open. Sunlight blesses the room, giving it the appearance of a celestial chamber. Outside, a distant murmur of voices rises from the garden.

Izzy raises her head to look at old Flo. ‘Flo? Flo? Mummy?’

Jess drops Flo’s cupped hand and examines the thin wrist for a pulse while watching the elderly face closely. ‘Flo?’

Her client has passed away. Jess swallows and places Flo’s hand alongside her body, then sits up as Morag enters the room respectfully, drying her hands on a towel stained reddish. ‘She’s gone.’

Jess nods her bemused assent. Wistful yet satisfied that all is in order, Morag moves round the bed and strokes Izzy’s hair. ‘Blossom said it was gonna be soon. She only hung on for you.’

From the distance, a familiar name is called by a chorus of elderly voices. ‘Erce. Erce. Erce.’

Jess turns her head and follows Flo’s dead gaze to the window. She slips off the bed and walks to the golden window, blazing with light.

At the edge of the grove, at the peak of the expansive garden, there is movement. And of a type to make Jess catch her breath.

Sheila and a small group of elderly figures, their arms and clothing stained blood-red like butchers, move along the tree-lined edge of the grove. Unsteadily, four of them push the large wheelbarrow. A hand-drawn vehicle containing the hive-shaped structure woven from sticks. The vessel when empty weighs little but when filled with the grisly cargo it was designed to carry, it requires a cart.

At the rear, as if in a trance, Sheila walks as slowly as an undertaker behind a hearse. Her eyes are closed. Out in front of the group, the elderly neighbour in the sun hat leads the way, waving the soiled scythe before her and clearing the ground of nettles and other impediments. The ensemble haltingly makes its way towards the black iridescence of the grove’s heart, the pond.

Deeper inside, beside the water, what resembles the tall trunk of a slender black tree subtly moves itself in absolute silence. A long, though vague, form with a narrow, beaked head. It passes through the far-off boughs and vanishes into darkness.