The crowd marched on, and Jessa and her friends heard Big Ben chiming midnight in the not-so-distant distance. Ding, dong, ding, dong, his unfaltering boom said, counting down to the uncertain inevitable. Twenty-four hours remained until Silas’s apparent sacrifice, and as yet they had no idea where he was.

It was clear that Silas’s speech at the hotel had hit home with many London citizens, who could only react by taking their anger to the streets and heading toward Westminster, home of the politics and government that they’d believed would educate them and protect them from the very things that were beginning to happen. Things they’d never even considered a possibility.

They stayed connected by hand-holding and arm-linking. Anything to stop the crowd from pulling them apart.

The closer they came to the Houses of Parliament, the unrest became even more palpable.

Then suddenly, through the rumbles of human commotion came a piercing blare from seemingly all around them.

“What is that?” Audrey cringed.

People started taking phones out of their pockets, and then there were glowing screens and ear-splitting alarms quaquaversally.

CITY-WIDE CURFEW.

RETURN TO YOUR HOME AND REMAIN INDOORS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

“What the…” Jessa tried to close the message, but it wouldn’t go away. All around her, fingers pushed at screens to no avail. The surrounding sound became one all-encompassing tinny wail of electronic noise.

“Use the power button!” Rachel called out. “Just turn it off!”

But just as quickly as they found relief from the electric bleats, they were shoving fingers back into their ears again under the thunderous thwack of helicopter blades spinning overhead.

“The Prime Minister has issued a city-wide curfew,” cami-green officers yelled down through a gigantic megaphone. “Please return to your homes and remain indoors until told otherwise. The British Armed Forces are being deployed, and anyone who fails to comply will be liable to arrest or detainment.

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Repeat: the City of London is under curfew, effective immediately.”

“Boo!” came the angry replies among the maddening crowd.

“That’s ridiculous, how can they possibly enforce a curfew when everyone is out like this?” Rachel enquired.

“They can’t,” Hugo said, wrapping his arm around Flynn as Audrey did the same to her sister. “They’re clutching at straws.”

“I’m trying to call John Cane, but there’s no signal anymore,” said Rachel. “I think the phone lines are all jammed. I thought maybe he’d be able to help, but it looks like we’re on our own.”

All of a sudden a toppling wave came throughout the crowd. People yelled and cursed as they tumbled into one another.

“What’s happening?” Flynn grasped a petite woman to save her from falling to the ground. “Who’s pushing?”

“Lift me up,” Jessa said to Hugo, who crouched slightly, allowing her to climb onto his shoulders. She held tightly onto his hands to steady herself, and looked out over the sea of people.

“The police are up there!” she called down. “They’re pushing everyone back! I can see their yellow jackets! Hang on, something’s happening further ahead… it’s too dark to make it out… whoa.”

She slid down from Hugo’s shoulders. “A massive group of people just charged the line of police. I mean, they literally trampled over them.”

“Well that’s not good,” said Flynn.

Gunshots.

Everyone cowered. Some screamed. Others tried to scatter but were unable to escape through the mess of a crowd. More pushing, more rushing, more limbs of panicked citizens flailing aimlessly.

More shots rang out clearly into the air.

“Must be warning shots,” said Rachel. “I can’t imagine the police would open fire on a crowd. Would they?”

“In the right circumstances, I do believe they would,” said Dr Mortlock.

The grumble of distant voices turned into the undeniable roar of a charge, followed by the shrill and deadly pitter-patter of bullets pouring from machine guns.

The crowd’s bellow turned to terrified screams as the guns continued to fire.

“This way!” Hugo pulled them back, hands clasped together in a desperate chain as they tried to wind through the crowd that simply didn’t know which way to turn. Some people scattered in directions away from the commotion, while others charged to join in the battle.

The gunshots continued.

Hugo Fletcher directed them down a side-street, where they caught their breath.

“I didn’t think the police were allowed to have guns!” Flynn rested his hands on his knees to regain his composure.

“They’re riot police,” Hugo replied. “They can use a lot more force.”

“Hey, over here!” a gruff voice called from a doorway further down the quiet alley. The six of them followed him inside to find a well-hidden old pub. Most seats were already filled by anxious locals who had congregated there to wait out the night’s events with their fellow citizens. Safety in numbers, people had said.

A buxom, tired-looking lady went behind the bar and returned with a cola for each of them and threw a few packets of crisps onto the table.

“On the house,” she said without a smile.

In the booth next to them lay two sleeping children with their heads in the laps of parents cradling barely-sipped pints of lager.

Two television screens each showed a different news channel. One played Silas’ video over and over, while another showed aerial footage of the riot outside Westminster, the very scene they had just escaped.

“Warning,” a banner across the screen read. “Graphic violence.”