At the top of the rise they look around: the city spreads itself out as far as the eye can see, south, north, east, west. They are still surrounded. To the south-east is the centre, towers rise like the stalks of flowers about to bloom. Smoke rises from somewhere north-west. West Bromwich. Wolverhampton. Holly looks nothing like her mother. She walks, intoning a tuneless song to herself. Her features – pert pinched little nose, cupped jaw, thin-lipped mouth, eyes like blue buttons – are petite. Mel has wide cheekbones, full lips, almond eyes. Yet Holly does resemble the girl in the school photograph of Mel at five years old. The code for her physical destiny buried deep in her genes, instructions to be issued in adolescence, a transformation. As would have happened to Sara. Will happen to Holly. They stumble along the verge, a grassy bank on the left-hand side of the road. ‘Where are we going?’ Josh asks. ‘It’s a surprise,’ Owen says. ‘An adventure.’ ‘What about Nana?’ ‘I’m hungry,’ Holly complains.
