Talk, talk, talk. In the last thirtysix hours Stella had spoken to an ambassador, a consul and his wife, half a dozen policemen, all six of her remaining close relatives, five neighbours she liked and several others felt less keen about, two journalists and three members of staff from the Bonnington University. She had also spoken to Tom. Thomas, aged eleven, was now fast asleep. His arms encircled a lump of grey woollen material, which in turn wrapped a large black stone, and his face snuggled up against a nylon animal of indistinct origin.

It was 8.15 pm and, being midsummer, the sun still shone. It turned the street of the Midlands village a delicate gold but it bleached the rooms of Stella's small home. Stella drew all the curtains, locked the front and back doors and took the phone off the hook. She didn't switch on any of the lights as the sun leaked round curtains and blinds into every room. For about half an hour she simply wandered from kitchen to sitting room, from study to bedroom. She walked barefoot. Her movements were purposeful, methodical as if she were carrying out some ritual measurement of the spaces she inhabited; a beating of the bounds. She might also have been searching for something, but if so her eyes were not involved, only her feet seemed to know where to go next.
When her feet grew tired she sat down cross-legged at the top of the staircase. From this position she could watch her son through his open bedroom door, sleeping with his chosen comforts and she could see the long bookshelves, her prospective comforts, lining her bedroom wall. She sat waiting. She was waiting until it was quiet enough to get back into the safety of her own head. She had a task to accomplish, she had to join up two dates - today (the 25th of July) - and another point about eight days ago. Between these two lay uncharted chaos streaming with people. People with many questions but very few answers. People who very, very kindly never left her alone. People who were preventing her from linking up these two dates. If she failed to make this connection she knew that her head would no longer belong to her. Her limbs and her inner parts; her lungs, her liver and then finally her heart would cease to function.
Stella sat like a small Buddha with both hands pressing down on top of her head and her grey eyes, under the dark fringe, wide open. After a while she found herself able to start again in the afternoon of the Thursday 17th of July.