Miles rolled by, Tom's strange daze continued, noticing everything around him but casting recent events into something of a dream. Sometimes he remembered his dreams, mostly not, and this one seemed to be fading as every minute and mile passed. The memories were still there, but the feelings and emotions were not. The last day of his life was turning into a movie. He thought of Jo, dead in their car, and it was as if she were an actress he had once known. He should have cried at that—he tried to force a tear—but a new model Mini cut him up and made him swerve, and his cursing dried up any sobs that might have come.

When Natasha next spoke in his mind, almost an hour after Tom had last heard from her, her voice made him jump and let go of the wheel. He grabbed it again quickly. The sudden movement had stirred the pain in his back and Natasha came in, calming fingers in his head, easing the pain away. How she did it he did not know; he was simply thankful.

I've been talking with them, she said. They're coming for us, all of them. They'll tell us where to meet, and then they'll take me home.

"Steven?"

Yes, they have Steven.

Tom began to cry. The tears were sudden, hot, streaming from his eyes and blurring his vision. He shook. "I need to stop," he said, "just for a while. I need the toilet, and food and drink."

Of course, Daddy, Natasha said. Her voice broke and she paused, as if expecting him to say more about his son.

But Tom did not ask. Right now, weak and in pain, he was not sure he really wanted to know.

He composed himself enough to drive the three miles to the next service station. He pulled off and parked as close to the main building as he could, partly to remain inconspicuous, but mainly because he had no idea how far he could walk. He sat for a while, gasping past sobs, forcing the tears to stop because they would attract attention. If the police caught him now, there would be no future. Natasha would be taken away and buried again. He would be arrested and charged with God knew what. And Steven … he would remain wherever he was now, doing whatever he was doing.

That was what Tom did not want to know. Not yet. After the memories Natasha had shared to show him her story, he had begun to fear that his son would perhaps be better off dead.

"I need to leave you for a while," he said. "I'll cover you with my jacket. You don't look …"

Don't worry, you can tell me, Natasha soothed.

"Well, someone would have to come close to see what you are."

Do what you need to do, but please come back soon. We're so close, and they can help me.

"Who are they? How many of them are there?"

Four, she said. That's all that survived. Lane and Sophia, and their children Dan and Sarah. And you'll meet them soon enough.

Tom sighed and rested his hands on his thighs, ready to get up. It was going to hurt. No matter what Natasha was doing to him, this was going to hurt. And then he realised one vital factor he had totally missed, and cursed his stupidity.

He had been shot. His jacket, shirt and the back of his trousers were caked in blood. His collar too, from the head wound that still throbbed. He was still covered in muck from excavating the mass grave yesterday. He was a fool who would not get ten feet before someone noticed him.

"Oh Natasha …"

I can help, she said.

"How?" Even now he sometimes forgot her psychic fingers in his mind, probing his thoughts, hearing him as he heard her.

I can make them look away.

"They'll still notice, I don't understand—"

But I can only do it if you take me with you.

Tom sat silently at that, shifting the mirror and staring back at the girl. Her wrinkled face returned the stare; no smile, no movement. Perhaps sitting up had drained her strength.

He looked around the car; foot-wells, glove compartment, turning cautiously in his seat to glance at the backseat. There was nothing he could use to cover her. He would need his jacket for himself—it was bloodied and holed, but not as bad as his shirt—and he could see nothing else. And then he remembered the boot. When he had searched it for tools he had seen an old blanket, spread across the floor in a vain attempt to keep it pristine.

"Not pristine any more," he said, smiling. There was blood everywhere, front and back, and grave dirt was ground into the leather seats.

All he had to do was leave the car, walk around to the boot, open it, retrieve the blanket from beneath the tools and anything else that might weigh it down, return to the rear door, lean in, wrap Natasha's corpse and carry it into the service station. And then he would have to rely on her to help, in whatever way he could. I can make them look away, she had said, and the sense of her in his mind made him believe that.

Piece of cake.

Taking a few deep breaths, Tom looked around. There was a small car parked next to him, its owners absent. A few people milled outside, smoking or drinking or talking into their mobile phones. No one seemed to be looking at him in particular, and more importantly he could see no sign of any police nearby. He touched the door handle and looked in the mirror at Natasha. The door opened with a portentous click.

As soon as Tom exited the car several people looked at him: a man walking his dog on a small grassed hill beside the main building; a lorry driver using a cash machine; a mother and her young daughter just exiting the main doors. He was the centre of attention, and they could not help but see the guilt on his face. A burst of dizziness hit him and he leaned back against the car, closing the door and looking up at the sky as if admiring the day. He held onto the handle, sure he was going to pitch left or right at any moment. He could feel something warm running down his leg, and he hoped it was blood.

Daddy! Natasha called. Stay awake! Stay standing! Don't fall down! There was genuine concern in her voice, and he realised that had been all but lacking up to now. He shook his head, confused.

"I'm doing my best," he whispered, then bit his lip. Covered in blood and dried mud was bad enough; talking to himself would be sure to mark him as a loony.

When he felt steady enough he lowered his head and opened his eyes. He needed to focus on something, centre his vision to still the crazy gymnastics his balance seemed to be enjoying at the moment. He stared at a huge menu for the burger bar. When the cheeseburger stopped wavering from side to side like a zeppelin in a hurricane he took another deep breath, closed his eyes again, counted to ten.

Nobody was watching him now. Perhaps they had seen the state he was in and decided to move on. Or more likely, he was simply not their business. Strangers are like forgotten photographs to other strangers: the negative is there, but the image is never printed.

Tom shifted sideways with his back against the car. It would look weird to anyone watching, but not as weird as a bloody bullet hole in his back.

And just what the fuck is she doing to me? he thought. Or am I still in shock? Bleeding my life away without even feeling it? He had no answers, and if Natasha heard, she remained silent.

That fuzziness remained, a veil over the past that seemed to dilute its importance. "Jo," Tom whispered experimentally, but he did not cry.

He reached the boot and popped it with the electronic key. Now there was no alternative but to lean in and expose his back. "Help me now if you can," he said, but Natasha was silent once again. He moved the spilled tools aside, shifted an old pair of shit-caked Wellington boots, then gathered up the blanket covering the floor of the boot. It had been chequered once, but successive spillages of livestock food and countless assaults by muddied footwear had turned it into a uniform grey. Filthy. Just as likely to attract attention with this, he thought, but then Natasha was back, her young voice filled with excitement like a kid on her way to the zoo.