The handle was black rubber with a lanyard hole. The blade was 18 inches of high-carbon steel, a spine thick enough to baton wood, a belly that curved into a point designed to sever green vines. It had a nylon sheath with a belt loop. It was utterly, terrifyingly competent.

She thought of the other things she could order from Screwfix: a drain rod, a sledgehammer, a respirator. Tools for the living. Not for fighting, but for clearing. For carving a way through the mess that had grown up around her since Mark left.

The machete hung at her side, dripping sap.