Chapter 7

WEST

There’d been no time for tears. He’d had to get out of there as quickly as he could, before they came for him again. That was, if they could find him.

He’d plundered the two he’d killed in the garden, taking one of their guns and all of their ammunition, along with the body armour and helmet of the bigger one.

He had been tempted to make his way to Heathrow, to get a plane out of there and ride things out on the Greek isles, but three things were wrong with that.

First, it would entail travelling back towards London, through the wild lands of Maidenhead and Slough, back towards the chaos of the city.

Second, he had no money. Not that money – either as notes or as a credit balance on an account – was worth anything now. The Chinese had effectively done away with money when they’d destroyed the datscape.

And third, he wasn’t sure that he still existed. Officially, that was. Lamp-ton had talked of glitches in the system, but what if those hadn’t been dealt with? What if they’d left him off the record?

There was only one answer, to head west and try to get to Hugo and Chris’s cottage down in Coombe Bissett, just outside of Salisbury. He wasn’t sure how far it was – eighty miles, maybe a hundred – but it was better than heading back in. It would mean travelling across lawless countryside, but there would be plenty of places to hide, plenty of places to bed down for the night. Besides, he was armed now.

What he didn’t have, and what he needed badly, was a map. An Ordnance Survey would have been nice, but any map would do.

There would be filling stations on the way – places where they sold the compressed air cylinders that most cars ran on these days. They’d have maps there, surely?

That gave him an idea. He’d never owned a car. Never needed to. But they couldn’t be that hard to operate. What if he took one and used one of the toll roads?

First, however, he would get to Henley, maybe use the gate at Sonning Common.

He set out, walking through the dark, half-lit streets, expecting at any moment to be stopped and challenged. But, apart from a twitching curtain here, a face at a window there, there was no sign of anyone.

Until he came to the gate.

There, in the streets surrounding it, they had built barricades, using whatever they could find – motor mowers, garden tables and chairs, shed doors and bicycles, bags of compost and old bits of wood. Nearby they had lit bonfires. In their light, Jake could make out sixty men or more, most of them armed.

Jake stopped, trying to make out if there was any other way round. But he had already been seen. Three men came towards him, guns raised.

‘Hey… Who are you?’

Jake knew he must have looked quite threatening, what with the body armour and the helmet and the gun hanging from his shoulder, but he tried not to panic them. He raised his hands.

‘It’s okay… I’m coming from Marlow… my girlfriend’s parents live there… Charles and Margaret Williams…’

They spread out, encircling him, their eyes narrowed, watching for any move of his, itching, it seemed, to use their weapons.

‘So what’s with all this?’ their spokesman said, gesturing towards the uniform, the weapons. He had a nasty, hostile expression on his face, like he wasn’t going to believe a thing Jake said.

He had to be careful.

‘There were assassins… Chinese…’

‘What the…?’ The man seemed to lose his patience. ‘Show me your ID!’ he barked. ‘And don’t think of trying to use one of those!’

Jake shrugged. ‘Okay… calm down… I’ll move slowly, okay? It’s in my jacket pocket, so…

He had almost forgotten. He still had the handgun. It was there, next to his ID card. Not that he’d have a chance to use it. No. He’d be dead before he could get a single shot off.

Jake took out the card and threw it across. The man stooped down and picked it up, glancing at it casually before looking back at Jake.

‘This genuine?’

What a fucking stupid question to ask. But Jake didn’t say that. He simply nodded. ‘I’m Jake Reed. Twenty-six years old. My birthday’s the eighteenth of August, and I’m a login.’

‘A what?’

‘He’s what they call a web-dancer,’ one of the others said. ‘Ain’t that right?’

Jake nodded. ‘I work for Hinton Industrial. Or did. I used to buy and sell stocks and shares on the datscape.’

He saw how the man pondered that, turning the card over and over in his hand. Then he seemed to make a decision. He lowered his gun, then stepped across, handing Jake back his card.

‘I’m sorry… it’s just… we can’t take any chances…’

Jake nodded, pocketing the card. ‘No need to apologize. But look… I need to get outside… I’m trying to join up with some friends, down in Salisbury.’

‘Salisbury? You won’t make it, friend. There’s wild mobs out there. Real fucking savages. You’d be better off staying here till things calm down.’

Maybe, Jake thought. Only he needed to be with friends, not strangers. If the world was coming to an end, then he wanted to be with those he loved, not those who’d shoot him if he got his story wrong.

‘Thanks for the offer but… my fiancée’s there. She’s expecting me.’

It hurt him even to say it. Only it made his anxiousness to be away from there believable.

‘There’s a lot of that shit,’ one of them said. ‘There’s gonna be a lot of people cut off from each other. I’m just glad all mine are home. Fuck knows how worried I’d be if they were the other side of the country. Like Mike says…’

‘Look, Mike,’ he said, latching on to the name. ‘I need a map. A good one, if possible. I’m kind of vague on the route, and…’

‘I’ve got one indoors you can have,’ Mike answered, amenable now that he knew Jake wasn’t a threat. ‘Just wait there. I’ll go get it.’

While he was gone, Jake talked to the other two. They were nervous about how things were, sure, but things would right themselves. Just give it a day or two and it would all be up and running again, just see if it wasn’t.

If only that were true, Jake thought. If only our leaders had the sense and the courage to sort things out.

Only they didn’t. Jake knew only too well who really controlled the Market. It was the international speculators. The big fish. And it was their greed, their inability to think of anything but their own fat wallets, that had allowed Tsao Ch’un to get away with this.

Not that it mattered now.

Mike returned, smiling now as he handed Jake the book of maps. It was a big, expensive-looking thing, leather-bound, 1 to 50,000 scale, or just over an inch to a mile.

‘I can’t…’ Jake said, old habits of politeness kicking in. ‘This is just…’

‘No, take it… it’s fine. You’re going to need it out there. And… my wife did this for you…’

Jake took the bag from him and looked inside. There were bottles and a number of small packages wrapped in foil – a regular little picnic.

Jake looked back at him, touched by this unexpected gesture.

‘Thanks… Look, I… I really hope it all goes well for you. I hope…’

That you all survive, he wanted to say. Only he couldn’t. It was too depressing. But it was the truth. The darkest days lay ahead, when people realized exactly what had happened. That nothing had any value any more.

He embraced them. Then, as a number of them kept him covered, they opened the gate and let him pass, out into the wilds. Out into the unprotected dark, gun in hand, hoping he’d made the right decision.

He went south and west, following the old minor roads, through Kidmore End, then across country, arriving at the sleeping village of Whitchurch as the clock struck three.

There was an old toll booth there on the south road. It had fallen into disuse years ago, but the road was still there, boarded off to cars. Jake climbed over the barrier and set off towards the motorway.

There were barriers – fifty feet tall – along the whole length of the motorway, with razor-wire on top to keep out the UPs, but just ahead of him the toll road dipped beneath the highway, emerging on the far side. The town of Theale was a mile or two further on.

As Jake went into the tunnel, he could hear cars on the motorway. There wasn’t much traffic, just the whine of an engine now and then as one went past, all of it heading west.

He moved slowly, trying to see into the shadows, his gun out and ready, the safety off. If he was going to be attacked anywhere, it was here. It was a perfect spot for an ambush. Only who the fuck would be walking out this late? Who would be so crazy as to use this route?

Only a desperate man.

The road dipped, then began to climb again.

He could hear the slow crunch, crunch, crunch of his own footsteps. Hear his own shallow breathing.

Something scuttled away, up a bit and to his right. He knew it was only a rat, or some woodland animal, but it made his nerves twitch.

He stopped, straining to hear.

Nothing.

And went on, climbing the slope, the darkness becoming less intense with every step, his heartbeat slowing as the tension eased.

He had been lucky so far. Or perhaps all the rioters had worn themselves out and had gone back home – were now safely tucked up in their beds, like good little savages.

Jake sighed. He’d have to stop soon. Had to get some rest. Travelling at night made sense, only he was exhausted. He had seen too much. Done too much…

At the top of the slope he halted. He could see the faint outlines of houses up ahead. Maybe one of them was deserted. Perhaps he could kip there for the remainder of the night, then set off early.

The implant beneath his right ear had been weeping again. It felt sore and swollen, possibly even infected. He’d have to see to that sometime. Maybe at Newbury when he got there.

If he got there.

As he came up alongside the first of the houses, he stopped, looking across.

How did you tell which houses were occupied and which not? Did you just break in and take a chance?

A barn, then, maybe. Somewhere that wouldn’t be checked before the morning.

Only he needed a bed. Needed to lay down and sleep, and he wasn’t sure a barn would be any good for that.

Jake let his head fall. Until that moment he had been all right. Until he’d thought of it, and seen himself in memory, there beside her in her bed in her parents’ house, her beautiful green eyes looking up at him.

‘Oh, fuck…’

He had been walking like a dead man. Numb. Emotionally drained. Pretending it hadn’t happened. Only now it came flooding back and he saw in his mind how she lay there on the floor beside the bed, her flesh sickly pale, a line of crusted blood about the plastic cord those cunts had used on her.

He groaned and fell to his knees.

Make it not so…

Only nothing could call it back.

Jake shivered, then remembered. The permit. He still had the permit in his pocket. He took it out, staring at it a moment, trying to make sense of it, then tore it into shreds and scattered it.

His life. His future. Gone. The whole fucking lot of it, gone!

Then why not end it now? Why not put the gun in his mouth and pull the trigger?

Jake got to his feet. Wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. He had to get to Hugo and Chris, that’s why. Had to tell them what had happened.

He walked on, his legs heavy now.

This one? No. The curtains are drawn. There’s someone in that one. Then this one, maybe? Yes… why not.

At worst he’d wake someone. At worst…

Only he had to sleep. If he didn’t he’d fall over.

He walked across and looked inside. The curtains were open, the front room dark. He went round the side of the building and tried the back door. It opened. Inside, in the dark silence of the kitchen, he stopped, straining to listen.

Nothing. The place was empty.

Even so, he checked it out. Checked every room. Then settled in the back bedroom, hauling a small chest of drawers in front of the door before he drew the curtains.

He didn’t risk putting on the light, but there was a television – an old wall-mounted plasma screen. He plugged it in, not expecting it to work, only it did.

The electricity’s still on!

That surprised him.

The screen lit. Images of burning buildings and riot troops in action. London, he guessed, or one of the other big cities. He turned the sound up slightly.

Two planes exploded in the air, one after another. Bits of one came raining down on an airport lounge as screaming passengers fled the burning building.

The picture cut out, then came back. The sound wavered momentarily.

An elderly man – the US Vice-President, Jake realized – was being sworn in, his generals standing close by, looking on, their faces anxious.

Three men – Chinese by the look of them, bound hand and foot – were led into a courtyard by masked special services men. They were forced down onto their knees then executed, one by one, with a single shot to the back of the head.

The screen went black, then slowly brightened.

There was something about Martial Law being declared, over pictures of streets packed solid with fleeing people. It cut to the announcer again.

The screen went black. This time it stayed black.

Wearily, Jake went across; turned it off then turned it on again.

It wasn’t the power. It was the signal.

He stretched then yawned; the kind of yawn that almost disconnects your jaw. What he’d seen on the screen, that was just part of it. All over the world fucked-up things were happening. Good people were dying. People who deserved a lot better.

It made him feel sick just thinking about it.

They should have killed Tsao Ch’un. Strangled the little bastard at birth. Like Hitler and all the other sociopathic egomaniacs. Drowned them in a vat of acid, just to make sure.

But he was tired now. Bone tired. He could barely feel his hatred through the thick layers of tiredness.

He lay down, knowing he shouldn’t sleep, that he didn’t deserve to sleep, not when his darling Kate was dead. But sleep came nonetheless, like a vast wave washing over him, dragging him deep into its sunless depths. Down, down into the dreamless abyss of exhaustion.

Like the dead. Like the living dead.

He woke early, startled back into consciousness, grabbing at his gun in a panic, the feeling that there was someone in the room with him strong. Only there was no one. He was alone.

Jake sat there for a time on the edge of the bed, hunched forward, his head in his hands. He had been too tired yesterday, too concerned with making his escape, for it to have struck home. But now it did, just like last night. Kate was dead. So too the life he’d known, his future.

Maybe, only he was still alive.

In the half light he could see now what kind of room it was. It had the look of a spare room, with cheap, make-do furniture and a threadbare carpet that smelled old and musty. He had barely noticed it when he let himself in, but now he did. This was the kind of room he’d have to put up with from now on.

Jake pulled the chest of drawers away from the door, then gathered up his things. Downstairs he searched through drawers and cupboards, looking for anything that might prove useful, putting it all into an old green knapsack he had found hanging on a hook next to the back door.

Knives, a torch, two packets of working batteries, a first aid kit, a pair of size nine hiking boots, and other things.

And then, because – who knew? – things might yet turn out right, he left a note, addressed to the householder, itemizing what he’d taken, and giving his old address back in the city.

He went out, pausing in that scruffy, untended yard, to listen.

Nothing. Only the call of birds in the copse beyond the houses.

He had a long walk before him, and it would be best if he got a fair distance behind him before people began to get up.

It was a bright, clear morning. Fresh, with not a trace of cloud.

He had no plan except to walk, and keep out of trouble. If he could.

Theale was silent. It seemed deserted. There was not a trace of anyone about. Maybe it was too early. But Jake had the sense of being watched.

No one was taking any chances. Maybe they were all staying indoors and minding their own business until things blew over. It was what he would have done if he were them. Only he wasn’t, and his only chance was to get to Hugo and Chris’s. Apart from them, he didn’t have a friend in the world.

He saw his first sign of the troubles as he came into what the road sign said was Sulhamstead. There, by the crossroads, an inn had been burned out. It must have been done recently, for it was still smouldering. In the car park nearby a number of cars had also been set alight.

Jake took the gun from his shoulder, then walked on.

At Woolhampton a number of windows had been smashed and several of the shops had been boarded up. Someone had spray-canned slogans on the boards and on the walls, together with the age-old anarchist symbol, the A in a circle, which always reminded Jake of an eye.

He walked on. Ahead was Thatcham, and beyond it Newbury. At this rate he would be there within the hour.

As he came to the outskirts of Thatcham, Jake slowed. Up ahead he could see a group of people, a dozen or so of them, gathered on the right-hand side of the road.

After seeing no one at all so far that morning, this little gathering seemed ominous. Should he get off the road and try and make his way round them, or should he press on, directly?

If he was to get to Andover by this evening, which was his plan, then he couldn’t afford too many delays. Only he didn’t want trouble.

But then, why should they be trouble? What if they were just normal citizens? Maybe they’d simply gathered to discuss things. Wouldn’t he have done the same? Only he had in mind what had happened at the gate last night; that hostility bred of fear and uncertainty. These were not normal times. You couldn’t expect people to behave as they would normally.

But to try and make his way around them made little sense. At least on the road he could see them clearly. Knew where they were. Off it, they had the advantage. After all, they knew this locality, he didn’t.

He walked on, taking the safety off. He didn’t mean to use the gun, but if he had to he would. He would keep to the other side of the road. Would greet them politely if they called out to him. Otherwise…

He swallowed.

This is how it’s going to be from here on in. A slow march through hostile territory, and not a single friend between here and Salisbury.

As the distance narrowed, he saw how they turned to face him, then stepped out onto the road, spreading out, blocking his way.

Twenty yards from them he stopped.

‘I’m going to Newbury,’ he called. ‘I just want to pass. I won’t do any harm.’

‘Where d’you come from?’ one of them asked in a broad Swindon accent.

Jake looked to him, read him at once. A troublemaker. A fucking troublemaker. Just his luck…

The man had the look of a pub drunk. Belligerent. Aggressive. The rest were taking their lead from him. He could see that at once.

‘I’ve come from London,’ Jake said, letting nothing show in his face. ‘I’m heading west.’

That was as specific as he was going to get.

‘I think you’re wrong,’ the man answered him, smiling unpleasantly. ‘I think you’re going east. Back where you came from.’

Jake had been looking along the line. Trying to assess where the danger was. Two of them had guns, which was probably why the man felt confident in threatening him. Only the two gunmen looked anything but confident. They could see he had better weaponry than them, and from the look of him, the body armour and all, he probably knew how to use it.

Jake sighed. ‘Look… just let me pass. I don’t want trouble. I don’t want to harm anyone, got me?’

He looked to one of the gunmen, then the other, then back at the mouthy bastard who was their leader.

‘If I have to, I’ll blow your fucking head off, understand? But I’d prefer not to. I’ve had a hard two days…’

‘Mike…’ one of them began, but the man cut him off with a savage hand gesture.

‘Listen, Mister… this is our village and we say who can come through, okay? So just turn around and…’

Jake fired the gun into the air. Saw how they all jumped at that, surprised, most of them taking a step or two back, away from him. The two gunmen were shaking now.

No doubt it’s easier under cover of darkness.

‘Leave ’im, Mike,’ one of them said. ‘’E ain’t worth it.’

‘That’s right, Mike,’ Jake said, smiling now, a cold steel at the heart of him now that he’d been pushed. ‘I ain’t worth it.’

They were moving to the side now. Clearing a path for him. All except Mike.

‘Listen,’ Jake said, meeting the man’s eyes coldly. ‘I’ll say it once and once only. Get out of my fucking way!’

Mike hesitated, then, his head dropping, he stepped back.

Good, Jake thought, only he moved slowly, carefully, keeping an eye on them all. Particularly the two with guns, just in case they found a bit of courage at the last. Then he was walking slowly backwards, away from them.

‘Arseholes…’ he said quietly, beneath his breath. But it had taught him an important lesson. He could not relax. Not for a second. For what had happened had exposed a rawness, a savagery in people, a compound of pettiness and bitterness and spite, that needed to be vented. And who better to vent it on than outsiders? Passing strangers like himself.

No. There would be no kindnesses from this point on. Only hostility. And next time he might not be so lucky. Next time they might shoot first and talk later.

Jake stopped just south of Newbury at a place called Enborne Row, where the A34 crossed the A343.

There, in the cover of the trees, his back to an old stone wall, he ate the last of the picnic he’d been given back at the Henley gate.

For that much, anyway, he was grateful. For the woman’s ham and chicken rolls and the bottles of spring water she’d provided. Jake wolfed them down, then, knowing he had a long march ahead of him, took ten minutes’ rest.

And woke an hour or more later, hearing voices on the road.

Refugees. He could see them through the trees. Two, maybe three dozen in total, carrying their possessions, one lot of them wheeling their stuff along on a handcart.

Maybe he should get in with them. Travel south with them to Andover. That was, if they were heading for Andover, and not taking the main road down to Winchester instead.

Jake gathered up his things, then quickly ran after them.

‘Hey!’

They turned, looking towards him.

He slowed, seeing their mistrust, their fear.

‘It’s okay, I…’

One of them grabbed a gun, aimed it at him. ‘Don’t come any closer!’

Jake knew how he must look. The guns. The helmet. Yes, and a two-day beard didn’t help, either.

‘Look, I won’t harm you. I just wanted…’

The one with the gun – mid-forties, he’d guess – didn’t waver. His gun was aimed directly at Jake’s chest, and he looked quite capable of using it. ‘I don’t care what you want,’ he said. ‘On your way. And now.’

Jake raised his hands. ‘Look, I…’

‘On your way.’

He took a long breath. They were afraid. Maybe afraid that if they took him in he’d prove a viper in their midst. And who could blame them?

‘Okay,’ he said, taking a step back. ‘I’m sorry… Hey, and good luck…’

Jake stood there for a long time afterwards, watching them go, feeling a longing for company that surprised him in its intensity. That was what he found hardest, he realized. Being alone. Having no one he could call on.

He walked on. Despite the hour he’d lost, it was still early. If he made up time he could be in Andover by late afternoon. And maybe someone would take him in, give him a room for the night.

Maybe…

Only he couldn’t be sure. Couldn’t be sure where next he’d find a single act of kindness.

For a long stretch of the road south, he saw nothing. Now and then – every ten minutes or so – a car would pass, always travelling south. Hearing them, he’d pull in, concealing himself as best he could, just in case.

Then, just outside of a place called Hurstbourne Tarrant, he heard a very different sound – the sound of a small convoy.

Hiding among the bushes at the edge of the road, he watched it pass. There were two armoured cars and five army trucks, the vehicles packed with helmeted soldiers.

He knew this area had, for a century and more, been a training ground for the army, and they had quite a presence here. Especially further south, round Salisbury Plain. But this was the first time he’d seen them. The first time he’d seen any sign that there was still a government in place.

There was barely any indication of the disturbances on the way south – no broken windows, no burned-out cars or marauding bands of thugs. But as he came to the outskirts of Andover, first town of any size for some miles, things changed.

The first thing he saw was the wreck of a car, over on the far side of the road. He went across, seeing where the windscreen was smashed. Someone had fired a shot through it. That, doubtless, had made it swerve off the road and hit the tree. Of the driver, however, there was no sign.

Jake felt the bonnet of the car. It was cold.

He was about to walk on, when he noticed something, over to his right. Cautiously, he made his way across, between the trees, then found the driver. He had crawled away from the crash, looking for safety. But he hadn’t found it. He had bled out, there by the wall of some godforsaken outhouse in the middle of nowhere.

Poor bastard. He didn’t look older than eighteen or nineteen.

There were further signs only a few hundred yards on. An isolated farmhouse had been targeted, the doors kicked in, the windows smashed. Inside, a brief glance revealed that someone had trashed the place.

Then, not a stone’s throw further on, a row of houses had been attacked and two of them burned out. Jake walked round them and found the corpse of a young man, lying on his front on the back lawn.

Jake checked the windows, making sure he wasn’t being watched, then stooped down and lifted the young man’s head.

He had been beaten badly. Mercilessly, by the look of it.

Evil fuckers…

Jake walked on, tensed now, his gun drawn and ready, expecting the worst.

At the first roundabout they’d built a barricade across the road, forcing any cars to either drive up onto the grass verge, or drive the wrong way about the roundabout.

There was no one there, but just across the way Jake saw how they’d built a second barrier, to try and trap those motorists who’d thought to evade the first. It had been cleared away, shunted over to one side. By the army, probably. But the wrecks of four separate cars could be glimpsed just a bit further on, and when he came to one of them, Jake was shocked to see that all four of the occupants had been killed, charred to death inside the burning vehicle.

The sight sickened him. It was hard to tell who they’d been – male, female, young or old, but he imagined them a family: mum and dad and their son and daughter. Imagined how terrified they must have been at the end.

He walked on.

The central part of Andover, according to his map, had been made into an enclave. There was a wall about it and three gates. Or, at least, there had been, for they too had been burned down, the wall breached in several places.

As for the town itself, it showed every sign of having been brutalized. Not a house or shop was undamaged, barely a single window was unbroken. A dozen buildings – maybe more, he didn’t venture down some of the side roads – had been burned to the ground. More sickening yet was the sight of bodies, lying untended in the littered streets. He counted more than twenty before he gave up. All of them had been attacked savagely and beaten to death – like the young man he’d seen earlier.

Out in the middle of the main street, Jake turned 360 degrees, his gun searching every window, every shadowed place. It was an hour or more from sunset and he had the feeling that this was not the place to be when darkness fell. But he had walked a long way and he was tired. And not only tired, but hungry.

He let out a long breath.

There was no one about. Andover was a ghost town.

He ran across, then ducked down a side road, checking each doorway, each window as he passed. There at the far end of the narrow street, he stopped, facing a small cottage-like building. It was painted a cheerful yellow.

He hesitated, then tried the door. It swung open.

Jake stepped inside.

He’d thought the house was empty. Thought he’d got the knack of telling which ones were, but he was wrong this time.

Or almost wrong.

The sight of the old man sprawled on the sofa, covered in blood, his head smashed in, was a shock. Likewise the woman on the stairs. He thought at first that maybe she was just sitting there, quiet in her sadness, only she too was dead, her sightless eyes staring straight ahead, into infinity.

He didn’t know how she’d died, didn’t really want to look too close, but it was more than clear how her husband had been murdered. He lay on his back on the big double bed in the back room upstairs, an axe in his chest, a look of surprise frozen on his face.

‘Fucking hell…’

It was as he was standing there, staring at the corpse, that she came at him.

If he’d not been wearing the protective armoured jacket, he’d have been dead right there and then. As it was he had a bruise the size of a melon come up later on.

The blow threw him forward, onto the bed. As he scrambled up, wondering what had hit him, she came at him again.

He couldn’t get his gun up fast enough, couldn’t unlock the safety. Her second blow glanced off his shoulder, taking a slice off his ear.

Jake grunted and tried to back off, tried to warn her. ‘For god’s sake…’

Only she wasn’t listening. Her face was like a fury’s. As she threw herself at him again with the big kitchen knife, he opened fire.

Twenty rounds from close range. Enough to take out a platoon.

Jake let out a groan. The force of the blast had literally blown her off her feet.

He stood there, staring down at her in disbelief, his hands shaking violently.

What was left of her chest wasn’t worth keeping. It was just a raw and bloodied mess.

She still gripped the knife, tightly, almost convulsively, but she was dead. And her face… Jake staggered to the side and threw up. She was just a girl. Just a wee girl. Why, she couldn’t have been older than twelve or thirteen.

He glanced round, then shook his head, in pain at the sight.

‘You stupid girl! You stupid, stupid girl!’

Who knew what she had seen? Maybe she’d thought he was her parents’ murderer, come back to finish the job. Maybe she’d even been a witness to it all, hidden away somewhere, in a wardrobe or something. He’d never know.

All he knew was that he felt sick to the stomach at what he’d done.

He stepped over her, making for the door. There he’d stopped, holding his wounded ear, taking a moment to look back. There was blood everywhere. And the two corpses…

He staggered away, crying now, ashamed of what he’d done.

After that, he had tried not to break into any more houses. Tried to make do with what he had. To catch an hour or two of sleep here and there, hidden away out of sight. Only that wasn’t always possible, and as more people appeared on the road so the potential for trouble increased. These were desperate times, and he saw from the eyes of those few whose path he crossed that desperation bred a kind of pragmatic evil. People were willing to do things they’d never have dreamed of doing. Just like he had.

He spent that night in an old abandoned brewery just outside of Andover, in an attic room that could be reached only by a ladder. He pulled the ladder up, like a drawbridge, but in the middle of the night he was woken by the sound of lorries pulling up outside, in the brewery’s cobbled yard.

Curious, he crept to the tiny attic window and looked down.

It was the army. Or some of them, at least. Two lorries full of khaki soldiers and an armoured car. Maybe the same as he’d seen earlier, on the A343.

The sight of them cheered him. He had begun to think that everything had broken down, but if the army was still functioning, still keeping some semblance of order, then maybe they still had a chance.

He was about to leave his place at the window and go down to speak to them – to maybe get a lift into Salisbury with them – when he heard the sound of another two lorries rattling down the narrow lane.

These had armed guards riding shotgun at the back of them. Inside were what could only have been prisoners, for the men who staggered from the back of the lorries were handcuffed, their hands tied so they were right up under their chins.

And one other salient feature. They were all black.

Jake knew at once that this wasn’t right. They might have been troublemakers, serious rioters even, only this was Andover and there was not a single white face among the captives.

He quickly packed his bag, checked that his gun was loaded, then returned to the window.

Things were happening fast down there in the yard. They had stripped the prisoners and had formed a circle about them, guns raised.

Jake’s mouth was dry. He thought he knew what was coming. Only what happened next surprised him. Surprised and horrified. One of the prisoners was taken from the circle and dragged into a smaller group close by, made up of six big, bare-chested soldiers. Sergeants by the look of them, altogether older and tougher than the squaddies who formed the other circle. These began by taunting their captive, pushing him about and flicking at him, lightly at first, like it was in play, but then more viciously, until they were raining vicious punches and kicks at the man as he lay on the ground.

Jake could see the dull glint of a knuckleduster, heard the crunch as steel-capped boots smashed teeth and bone.

He tore himself away, sickened, unable to watch. But the sound of it went on as the ritual was repeated for another and yet another of the prisoners.

It was now that some of the captives, knowing what fate had in store for them, tried to make a break.

They had no chance, of course. The soldiers had awaited this moment. In an instant some of them drew their knives, while others used the butts of their guns as clubs, wading in, joining in the fun, stabbing and smashing in a real blood frenzy.

It was over in minutes.

While the older men smoked and talked among themselves, the squaddies set to, loading the bodies back onto the trucks, slinging the dead men up onto the platform like they were haunches of beef, laughing and joking as they did.

From where he was, Jake could have taken out at least three or four of them, maybe more, before they’d even worked out where he was firing from. Only what was the point? He’d be dead. They would make sure of it. Whereas if he kept his head down…

As the lorries drove away, Jake sat there with his back to the attic wall, shivering, not from the cold, but from an overwhelming sense of hopelessness. The world was going mad and there was nothing he could do. He had given it his best shot, back in the datscape, and he had failed. All he could do now was hide away. Until things got better.

Which was why he was here now, sat at the roadside near Salisbury, waiting for the crowds to pass, for darkness to fall.

Further up the road they had set up a barrier. Soldiers were manning it, stopping people and checking their IDs, while others observed the crowd from the back of an army truck, looking out over people’s heads, making sure there was no trouble.

Were they the same soldiers? He couldn’t tell. It had been dark, and he’d not really noticed which regiment they were from. But he didn’t trust any of them now.

That way, he realized, was barred to him. Even if his identity was back on record, even if he did officially exist once more, he wasn’t sure that he wanted anyone to know where he was. What if an ID enquiry tipped them off? They had found him last time, and double quick. Why shouldn’t they be able to find him again?

No. He’d wait for dark then make his way round to the south and then west again. Coombe Bissett was only a short way beyond the town, a couple of miles at most. It made no sense to be impatient, not now that he was so close.

He sat there for another hour, biding his time, then got up and walked away, crossing over the main road and taking a side street, away from the tide of refugees.

He was halfway down when he heard the unmistakable click of a gun being cocked in the deep shadow to his right. He stopped, raising his hands, slowly turning towards the sound, making sure he did nothing to make them panic and shoot him.

The man was roughly his own height, but whether he was young or old, Jake couldn’t tell. His face was completely in shadow.

‘What’s ee want?’ the stranger asked, in a broad Wiltshire accent.

Fifties, Jake guessed. He cleared his throat. ‘Just passing through, Mister. Don’t want no trouble. There’s soldiers stopping people up there, and I don’t feel like being stopped, if you know what I mean?’

The man stepped forward a little, coming out of shadow. His shotgun was levelled at Jake’s chest.

‘And why be that?’

More like sixties, he re-evaluated. The man’s eyes were surrounded by wrinkles, his beard completely grey.

‘Maybe because I’ve seen too much these past few days. Seen what they’re capable of. I don’t fancy being any man’s prisoner.’

The old man nodded vaguely at that. ‘Where you be ’eaded?’

‘Coombe Bissett. Got friends there. They’re expecting me.’

‘Coombe Bissett, eh?’ His eyes blinked, blinked again. ‘Then you best get movin’, eh, boy? There’s a track goes round that way… keep walking down this road, two, three hundred yards, then right. You’ll recognize it. There’s a long gate with a broken bar. Climb over that and follow the path… it’ll bring you out south of the town…’

Jake touched his finger to his brow. ‘Thanks. I’m much obliged to you… And good luck.’

The old man nodded. ‘Looks like we’ll all be needing it, eh, boy?’

The encounter with the old man raised his spirits. Like the picnic, it was sign that there was still some kindness, some decency in the world. That things might yet be okay.

Only every time he thought that, he kept seeing her again. His darling Kate. There on the floor beside her bed.

It was late afternoon by the time he got there, for though it wasn’t far, there had been army patrols everywhere and he’d had to hide several times, backtracking each time and trying another way. But finally here he was.

Coombe Bissett was much as he remembered it. Beyond the razor-topped wall, there was a pond and, across from it, an inn – the only one in the village. Just beyond that was a long, sloping lawn with a row of black brick houses to the left, and, at the top, Hugo’s cottage, with its thatched roof and whitewashed walls.

Jake tapped in the security code at the enclave gate and waited as it hissed open. Walking past the inn, he was conscious of the silence of the place. There was no sign of anyone.

How many times had he come here in the past? At least six or seven. But he had never been so glad to see it as now.

As he climbed the slope he noticed, to the right of the house, in the yard next to the adjacent barn, a bright red Audi, parked right up against the wall.

Jake smiled at the sight of it. Jenny’s here!

Only then he remembered his news.

He stopped and turned, composing himself, looking about him. It was all so quiet, so peaceful, after all he’d seen.

Jake took a long breath. He was close to tears. He had been so alone on the road. So fucking terribly alone.

He turned back, imagining their faces. Their surprise at seeing him.

He had never felt so glad to be somewhere. Never in all his life.

Wiping his face, he took the last few strides across the lawn, letting himself in by the side door.

He could hear the radio, playing in the background. Could hear Hugo’s voice, speaking over it, then Chris’s sudden laughter.

Jake closed his eyes, a tear rolling down his face.

Thank fuck…

He peeled off the jacket and set the helmet down beside the butler sink. Then, careful to make no sound, he lay his guns and knapsack down in the corner by the freezer unit.

He could hear Jenny’s voice now, making some joke. Chris was laughing again; that lovely, deep, hearty laughter of his.

Jake froze. The next voice stunned him.

Kate. It was Kate.

He walked through. Saw at once that the room was empty.

To his right the big wall screen was lit up. On it, as large as life, the six of them sat about, half-filled wine glasses and a half a dozen bottles spread out on the low central table, as they laughed and joked, in this very room.

Two years ago, it had been. Jake could remember it like yesterday.

He went across and, crouching down, looked at the projection box. It was on a loop. He pressed pause. At once the image froze.

Jake stood, looking about him.

Maybe they were out. Maybe they’d gone to town, to get food and supplies. But if so, then why all of them? Why hadn’t someone stayed to mind the fort? And why had they left the screen on a loop?

He went upstairs. The place had been ransacked. Totally trashed, like someone had been through everything with a fine-tooth comb.

Looking for me. Or for some clue as to where I’d go.

Only where were they? Had they been taken somewhere?

Jake hoped not. But what other explanation was there?

What surprised him most, after all he’d seen these past few days, was that there were no signs of violence. No blood. No bodies.

He grabbed the gun then went outside, checking the barn, the summer house, the garden shed.

Nothing. No sign of them at all.

Jake stood there, back in the lounge, wondering what to do. He’d had no other plan except to come here.

If they’d been here once, then surely they’d come back. And if he were here…

He had to leave. He couldn’t risk staying.

Jake found the keys to Jenny’s car where he knew she always left them, in the drawer to the right of the sink, then loaded his things.

He should have gone, there and then, before they came. Every minute he was there he was in danger. Only he couldn’t leave. Not before seeing her once more. Not without hearing her voice.

Jake went back through and, for the next hour, stood before the screen, watching it all. His life with Kate. One evening of their charmed and wonder -ful life.

Only then, at the end of it, did he tear himself away and, tears running down his face, reversed out onto the slope, heading away from there, knowing he’d never see any one of them again.

The car got him as far as the village of Pimperne, just outside of Blandford Forum. There the compressed air cylinder gave out. Taking his knapsack and his gun, he abandoned the car and set off on foot, heading south, round the town, meaning to get back onto the main road and follow it down to Dorchester. Only it was getting dark and when he got to the roundabout he could see, along the road a bit, that two houses had been set ablaze, and knew that trouble lay that way.

Which was why he took the Poole road.

Two hours later, having made good time on an almost empty road, he found himself on the outskirts of that great sprawl of suburban architecture that was the Poole and Bournemouth enclave.

It lay like a great swathe of brightness between him and the darkness of Poole Bay, that very brightness an encouraging sign. Elsewhere almost everything had been cast into darkness, but here it was different. Here they’d kept things going.

It was only streetlights, he realized, only he had never seen anything quite so welcoming, anything quite so expressive of what they stood to lose.

Even so, it was no use going that way. It might have looked welcoming, but there was nothing for him there. Not while they were after him.

It was standing there, taking in that stirring sight, that he finally made his choice.

Corfe. He’d go to Corfe.

It wasn’t far, after all. An hour’s forced march to Wareham, maybe, and then a further hour after that.

And then he’d rest. Jake closed his eyes. The simple thought of it made him realize just how tired he was. More tired than ever. In truth he could have found himself somewhere right there and then and lain himself down, only why prevaricate? Now that he knew where he was going there was no point. Not until he got there. Not until he reached the end point of his journey.

He would walk all night if he had to.

Jake sighed, then, taking the Wareham turn, set off. Away from the light. Out into the ancient Purbeck night.

Jake had no idea at all what time it was when he arrived. The place was in total darkness, not a light to be seen for miles, and the castle was a mere suggestion of a shadow atop the looming blackness of the mound.

There was a barrier, however, blocking the road into the village, and manning it were two, maybe three men. Again he could barely discern the details, it was so dark.

For a moment he thought about throwing himself at their mercy. Of going over to them and begging them for a place to sleep. Only it was late, far too late. After all, he had not come all this way to be shot by some nervous villager merely because it was dark.

Silently he turned away, taking the road that went about the castle’s base, recalling it from his childhood. Before his parents had been killed in that awful accident. Back in those heady days of innocence.

There had been a campsite about a mile down the road. They’d even stayed there once or twice. A little way on from that, he knew, was Church Knowle. He would try there. See if he couldn’t find somewhere to bed down for the night.

As luck would have it, there was a place, its windows boarded up, a padlock on the door, an estate agent’s sign set up against the garden gate. As quietly as he could, he forced the back door and made his way upstairs, finding himself a bed. There, almost as soon as his head touched the pillow, he fell into a deep sleep; a sleep in which, for the first time in several nights, he dreamed of data streams and virtual landscapes.

It was there, in his dreams, that they came for him. And it was there, in that small back bedroom, in the light of a wavering candle, that they woke him, two of them holding him down by the arms, while the third held a shotgun to his throat and smiled darkly.

‘Who’s been sleeping in my bed?’

Jake was dragged down the stairs and out into the dark, his hands roped tightly together, the shotgun jammed into his back.

There, just outside the house, a small group of villagers had gathered in the flickering light of their hand-held torches.

‘Where’s Tom?’ one of them was saying anxiously. ‘Go and get ’im! Tell him we ’as an intruder!’

The accent was purest Dorset. The man himself, in that faint light, was of typical local stock, broad-shouldered and dark-haired. He looked to Jake and glared.

‘A fuckin’ Lunnun-er, I tell ’e!’

Jake lowered his eyes, determined to keep silent. To speak only when he was spoken to. Maybe, that way, he would survive this night.

There were a good dozen there already and more kept arriving by the moment. Then, through the growing crowd, the one named Tom appeared. He was a big man, much bigger than most of his fellows, and he moved gracefully, but what surprised Jake most was his age. He’d been expecting a middle-aged man, or someone even older – some village elder from whom they took instruction – but this one was barely Jake’s own age.

‘What have we here?’ he asked, coming directly up to Jake and looking at him, as if he were some kind of specimen. ‘What’s your name and where’re you heading?’

There was Dorset in that, too, only less than in the others’ voices, and it made Jake think that maybe he’d spent some time away from there – at college maybe, or up in town.

He spoke up confidently. ‘My name’s Jake Reed and as for where I’m heading… well, here I guess. I used to come here for my holidays when I was young. I…’

Jake stopped, seeing that the other was getting a touch impatient.

‘They tell me you had a gun,’ Tom said. ‘A big thing. A semi-automatic. That’s a bit odd, wouldn’t you say?’

Jake looked down. ‘I took it from a dead man. They… killed my girlfriend. We were staying at her parents, in Marlow. I…’

The man waited. Then, ‘Go on.’

Jake shrugged. ‘There’s nothing more to say. I’ve walked from there to here. Three days, it’s taken me. I was going to stay with some friends, up near Salisbury, only…’

He fell silent. It didn’t matter what he said. They would either kill him or not. Or send him on his way, which was just as bad. Because in the end someone would lose patience with him. Or try to rob him, or…

Tom reached out. Undid the rope that bound his hands together.

‘Jimmy… you got a spare room till we can find out what to do with this one?’

‘I ’ave… you know I ’ave, only…’

‘I’ll vouch for him,’ Tom said. ‘I’ll even sit up and guard him, if you like.’ He looked to Jake and lowered his voice. ‘You won’t mind that, will you? Me taking precautions?’

Jake almost smiled at that. ‘I’d think you mad if you didn’t.’

‘Then it’s agreed,’ he said, addressing them all again. ‘We meet in the morning, at the church, a’right? Ten o’clock, and not a moment later. And we’ll work out then what we’re going to do with this here Jake fellow.’

There was a murmur of agreement and then they began to file back to their houses, the excitement over.

‘Thanks,’ Jake said. ‘Thanks a lot.’

But now that the others were gone, Tom’s face seemed harder when it looked at him. ‘Don’t thank me yet,’ he said. ‘And let me warn you, friend Jake. Don’t try anything. Understand me?’

Jake nodded. ‘I understand.’

‘Good. Then let’s get you back to bed.’

That was the morning it began. The same morning he met Annie for the first time. The first day of his new life.

There, in St. Peter’s, before a packed hall of more than two hundred locals, he answered all their questions, leaving nothing out. Being straight with them because, as he reasoned later when they talked of it, they either had to take him as he was or end it then. There could be no half measures.

And so he told it all. Even the mad stuff, the stuff about the Chinese coming after him.

And at the end, when they came to decide, he stood there, naked in his soul before them as, one after another, they stood up to cast their vote.

‘Aye,’ one would say.

Then ‘Aye’ again from another.

And Tom would write each one down in the book.

‘Aye.’

‘Aye.’

Not a single nay.

Jake stood there at the end, humbled and astonished, deeply moved by the strange power of the ritual. Becoming, there and then, one of them. Bound to them by this. For just as they had accepted him among them, so he felt he must prove himself to them. As Tom came up to him and put his hand on his shoulder, Jake smiled, touched, maybe even changed by their kindness.

‘Well, my friends,’ Tom said, grinning broadly, speaking to the gathering. ‘We have a new member of our host. A new friend. A good friend, let’s hope. Jake Reed.’

There was applause, then a shout from the back.

‘What are we waiting for?’

It was answered immediately. ‘Don’t know about you, Daniel, but I’m waitin’ for the bloody pub to open!’

There was laughter.

‘Well?’ Tom asked. ‘Will you come and have a drink with us?’

Jake looked down. He couldn’t meet the other’s eyes. Couldn’t bear such kindness after all that had happened.

‘Hey… it’s okay. You’re safe now. Among friends. You’re home now, boy. Home.’

Jake looked up, gratitude in his eyes.

Home.

He sniffed, then wiped the tears away. ‘I guess I am.’