theurgy Norman was only allowed to see her in her off-white bra and mis-matched knickers. The ground rumbled. The walls of the house swayed. Rubble rolled down the stairs and avalanched into the living room. Norman reached out to hug Martha but she pulled away. Outside, an electricity pole snapped and crashed to the ground. The sparks looked like a cheap backyard firework display. A huge crack opened up along the road. Cars were wedged and the pavement was sucked under. A tree balanced on the verge, rocking over the canyon. The seams of their little neighbourhood were fraying. Ray leaped onto his rusty mountain bike and cycled down the road, leaving behind his bedroom furniture on the lawn. Golf-ball sized hail stones bounced on the mattress and collected in the seat of Ray’s deckchair. “The Leader will save us,” Martha said, straightening out a crease in her dress. She folded her arms around her chest. Norman picked up the phone and pretended to dial.
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