The raised platform from which Marcus Vandon had been speaking tottered precariously. He clutched at the railings, his-voice drowned in the screaming of the injured as he attempted futilely to reason with those around him. He felt himself falling, and thudded softly on to a carpet of squashed bodies, a hillock of corpses, broken limbs dangling loosely, features resembling crushed blood-oranges. But even six feet above ground level Marcus Vandon was not safe. Others were clambering blindly over every obstacle, heavy boots crushing and kicking in a mad frenzy to escape. He was conscious of the cracking of his skull, a brief second of agony, and then, for him, it was all over.

Those who had climbed the pylons watched from a dizzy height as man trampled man below them. They were in the safest place ... except for the bats! A fifteen-year-old boy threw up both hands in an effort to ward off a particularly aggressive bat which flew at him for the third time. He felt himself falling, grabbed wildly, missed his hold, and plummetted head first from his perch. A few feet below him he struck two of his colleagues who were endeavouring to climb down, taking them with him on his death fall.

The bats were relentless in their crazed flight, dive-bombing the crowds, reluctant to desert the stadium. The young hung on the stands, watched the antics of their parents, tried to imitate them, and then, when their wings became tired, flew back to rest.

By midnight Villa Park was quiet except for an occasional groan from someone amongst the piles of strewn corpses, a luckless person who still clung hopelessly to life. Bodies lay on the terraces and in the stands, and it would have been impossible even to estimate the death-toll.

No ambulances had come. None had been mobile at all that day..

In the guarded Council Chambers plans were being drawn up for the removal of corpses from public places by means of refuse carts.

Gerald Pitkin had watched the sky darkening over the Wrekin for the past half-hour. His head ached, and his eyes seemed to smart in their sockets. Beside him, his wife sat in the passenger-seat of the Fiat as though dozing, but he knew that although her eyes were closed she was not asleep. Harry stared out of the window at the rear, expressionless, unspeaking.

'It's nearly dark.' Gerald tapped Bertha on the shoulder. 'I think we'd better be moving.'

'D'you think it's worth it?' Her eyelids flickered open as she spoke, and he saw that she had been crying silently to herself. 'I mean, we won't make it, will we?'

'Of course we shall,' he replied, trying to sound confident. 'It's only about ten miles from here, across country.'

'But those guards...'

'We'll keep our eyes peeled,' he assured her, and eased his door open. 'Bet you we don't see a single one.'

All three of them got out. The Fiat was parked in an open gateway, its front wheels resting on the stubble of early harvested barley.

'The sky's very red over there.' Bertha Pitkin pointed beyond the Wrekin.

'Probably the reflection of the setting sun,' Gerald replied. He knew perfectly well that it wasn't. It was too late, anyway. He knew in his heart what was causing the glow. Somewhere, far away, something was burning. Something big. Buildings. A town, maybe a city. Wolver-hampton or Birmingham.

'We'll head west,' he spoke in low tones. 'Keep well clear of villages and roads until we get to Atcham. Shouldn't think they'll bother with guards out that far. We'll be well behind the lines then.'

Gerald led the way, crawling under barbed-wire fences, holding up the wicked strands for Bertha to crawl beneath. Clothing was torn, hands and legs were scratched, but nobody complained.

There was silence everywhere. They knew that the road was no more than a quarter of a mile away, yet no sound of traffic came to their ears. No lights showed in houses or cottages. A dog barked somewhere as they passed a darkened farmhouse, but nobody came to investigate. It was as though the whole world had died and they were the sole survivors of some terrible disaster. Gerald Pitkin shuddered at the thought. It was a very real possibility.

The land ahead of them rose slightly. They could see trees and bushes outlined against the sky.

'How much further d'you think it is?' Bertha whispered hoarsely, holding on to her husband's arm for support.

'We must've covered about rive or six miles.' he replied. 'We're not doing too badly. If we can keep this pace up we'll be at Tom's before daylight'

Then, in one brief, horrifying second, their hopes were shattered. They were halfway up the slope when a voice called from the shadows, 'Hold it right there. Keep perfectly still or you'll be shot!'

Gerald Pitkin caught his breath. Bertha whimpered softly. Harry remained silent. Footsteps came towards them, boots crunching on dry bracken and grass, and two men appeared. One was hanging back, covering the other. Both had guns.

'And where the hell d'you bastards think you're bleedin' well goin'?' the nearest man demanded. He approached 'hem, and arrogantly spat at their feet.

They could see he was dressed in some kind of improvised uniform. A camouflage combat-jacket bore white initials clumsily stitched on to the lapels. BVF. Added to this was a PVC jungle-style hat, denims and heavy working boots. The weapon he carried was a sporting gun, probably a twelve or sixteen gauge, Gerald decided. A cartridge-belt was slung, Mexican-style across his chest.

'We're on our way to Shrewsbury.' Gerald tried to keep the tremor out of his voice. 'To see my brother.'

'Well nobody goes any further than this. So piss off back where you came, all three of you.'

'Our car broke down outside Wellington,' Gerald said. 'We had to leave it and walk.'

'Well you can bloody well walk back to it.'

'Please. My wife is exhausted... '

'Look, mate, I'm bloody exhausted too, turning back bastards like you who leave the roads and try to sneak out of the disease-zone across country.'

'Who are you?' Gerald asked, but he already knew, anyway.

'BVF. And if you don't piss off right now, you'll be shot.' There was the click of a safety-catch being pushed forward. 'All three of you. And you won't be the first tonight!'

Slowly Gerald Pitkin turned away, and the three of them trudged back down the hill. None of them spoke. When they reached the bottom they sank down on to the soft grass, huddling together in a way that they had not done for many years.

'What... what are we going to do now?' Bertha sobbed at last.

'I don't know,' Gerald replied. 'I just don't know.' And in the east the sky had become a deeper red, the fiery glow spreading across the whole width of the horizon beyond the Wrekin.

The city of Birmingham burned for two whole days and nights, dense columns of black smoke rising into the sky, spreading and obscuring the scorching rays of the sun. Fire-brigades fought and lost a series of battles, being forced to concede several major buildings to the flames, and spraying adjacent ones in a futile effort to check the spreading blaze. And all the time they were hampered by missile-throwing crowds which even the combined Armed Forces and BVF squads were unable to drive back at times.

Rubber bullets were replaced by lead ones during the first day of street fighting. No longer were warning shots fired over the heads of the fear-crazed mobs. Tanks and armoured trucks formed barricades hi an attempt to segregate New Street and Corporation Street whilst the battles with the flames continued.

The streets were littered with the dead. The wounded cried incessantly for aid, but none heeded them except perhaps close relatives, many of whom paid the extreme penalty from either venturing into the line of fire, or being buried beneath falling, burning rubble. Nowhere were the casualties collected. The outbreak of violence had prevented the scheme for corpse clearance by means of refuse-carts being implemented. It was hoped, unofficially, that the majority of the victims would be cremated in the holocaust.