‘Polly isn’t properly asleep; she keeps sitting up to listen to the angels singing, so I drive around the neighbourhood until she lies back down. I begin to notice all the flowers people have laid out for us: wreaths on doors, decorated lampposts, twinkling lights. When I am sure that they are both sound asleep I turn left near the bridge and drive down towards the river. I can see that the tide is high. I stop the car at the top of the road. I reach back to take Annie’s little black-nailed hand. I squeeze it tightly: “Here we go, my darlings, Granny will be waiting for us.” I wrap the seat belt around my neck once, just to be sure the Devil can’t drag me out. I take a deep breath. Then I put my foot down on the pedal and rev the engine, feeling the wheels spin on the tarmac. We lurch forward and begin to speed towards the edge of the walkway, my foot pressed to the ground. And the next thing I know the wheels are in the air, we are flying. Then the bullet-hard thud as we hit the water. We float for a moment. The temperature drops acutely and the river spins the car around and I can see the shore, the twinkling lights of life. The water begins to swallow us up, the car tilts on to its side and the singing angels stop their singing . . . no . . . no . . .’

Emma had not moved a muscle during the telling of this. Connie had been speaking quietly, unemotionally, her eyes closed throughout. Now she opened them wide and looked at Emma with a terror that Emma knew and recognized.

‘They’ve woken up! They’ve woken up!’ she cried. ‘They’re screaming!’

Emma reached out to hold Connie’s arms.

But Connie wasn’t aware of Emma; she could only hear their screaming. The blood was draining from her face, her body had gone rigid, the muscles in her scarred neck stood out; she was about to fit.

Emma got down on her knees and grabbed her firmly. ‘Listen to me! Annie’s OK. Both of them! They’re OK! They’re alive!’

But Connie could not hear her. ‘Get them out! Do something!’ She was screaming now, her whole body rigid as a plank of wood. ‘Help us!’ Then she let out a wail so inhuman, so visceral, so horribly private, that a chill went through Emma. She had heard that sound before; out of her own mouth a long time ago.

‘Connie!’ she cried, and slapped her hard across the face, and something in Connie shifted.

‘They’re out, Connie! Two men were returning from night shift at the cement factory . . . They saw your car go into the water, the force of the current dragging it. They went in, Connie. They got you all out. Annie’s OK. She’s OK. Polly’s OK . . .’