Eric Atkinson descended the remaining stairs cautiously, Marlene following close behind; he knew she was there because he could smell her fear. Nobody was interested in them, they did not even seem aware that strangers were in their midst. Because everybody was a stranger.

He tried to work out how to pass through the swing-doors, plate glass rotating every time anybody pushed at them; then somebody fell, perhaps was pushed, sprawled headlong and jammed the doors, pinned securely, struggling and yelling. Eric Atkinson seized his chance, squeezed through the narrow gap, pulling Marlene after him, treading heavily over the unfortunate youth who shrieked in agony; his abdomen bulged but it was stronger than that of the aged woman on the second floor and did not split.

Outside, breathing in the fresh air, hustling and being hustled. Some of the passers-by were still clothed, struggling to rid themselves of clinging garments, tearing at material, pulling blindly. Frustrated, wondering how their bodies came to be obstructed by these inexplicable things which overheated burning skin and restricted their movements.

Futile flight in a strange land; roads that were circular and brought them back to the place from which they had started but they were not aware of this because the landmarks were all the same, buildings that looked identical wherever they went.

The crowds were swelling as more and more poured out into the packed streets, clambering over vehicles, some examining them with interest, overcoming their fear of alien objects, chattering excitedly.

A large van was pulled on to the pavement close to a bank, a black chassis with a green trim, barred windows on the side doors and at the rear. One of the side doors was open so that you caught a glimpse of the interior. Two men, naked except for their helmets, of which they seemed totally unaware. Money everywhere; packets of notes, the polythene wrappings split so that the currency had showered out, a carpet of giant confetti, blue, green and brown spilling across the floor, down the steps, wafting along the road. A fortune in street litter that was being trodden and shredded by an army of feet, ignored because nobody realised and even if they did they weren't worth anything. A gust of warm summer wind stirred them, swirled them, swept them further away.

Eric Atkinson pulled Marlene along with him, hurrying, almost dragging her; not knowing where he was going only that his instincts screamed at him to be away from this place of artificiality which stank of death and fear.

Run. Hide. Anywhere, but not here.

JON QUINN sweated as he pushed the starter-button on the Land Rover. On the fifth attempt the engine coughed into life, emitted a cloud of black smoke, threatened to die, but he jammed his foot on the accelerator and just caught it in time. During those few awful moments he thought that it had packed up on him in his hour of greatest need. He sighed his relief audibly, let the engine tick over, the rattling vibrations of the meccano-like bodywork sweet music in his ears. When he got back he would park it on the slope facing downwards, jump-start it next time if he had to.

He checked the petrol gauge. Half-full; five gallons averaging 18 mpg. Ninety miles before he ran dry. There was an old-fashioned garage in the next village that still had a hand-operated pump; probably the majority of electrically-powered ones were out of commission by now. Tomorrow he would have a run over and fill up, take as many empty five-gallon oil drums with him as he could find, stock up before everybody else got the same idea. If there was anybody else left.

He didn't relish the prospect of venturing into civilised parts, not even remote villages. He was scared of what he might find. But he would have to do it sooner or later. Oh God, if only Jackie was here. There had never really been anything wrong between them, just a steady drifting apart that neither of them had made the effort to check. And now it was too late.

The engine was ticking over steadily, sounded smoother than it had done for months. He let in the clutch, reversed slowly out into the lane. It was about a mile and a half to Gwyther's farm, the road following on round the hill, barely the width of the Land Rover. In summer you drove cautiously in case you met an oncoming vehicle, the straggling overgrown hedge restricting your vision. But there was no chance of meeting anybody today. Or ever again, if you were pessimistic. Realistic.

A half-grown rabbit scurried across his path, jumped to. safety in the long grass. It looked perfectly normal. Maybe the rabbits were all right because for most of the time they lived below ground. Foxes and badgers would probably be OK, too.

The lane rose sharply. Down into second gear, only when there was ice about did he have to resort to bottom. Not hurrying, letting the vehicle take its time because he didn't really want to go to Gwyther's at all. The twelve-bore was in the back, both barrels loaded—He didn't like carrying a loaded gun in a vehicle but this was an emergency. He wouldn't feel safe without it.

The Land Rover made the sharp incline, its revs urging him to change up a gear now that the lane was level again. High up, virtually on the top, slowing to look back down and seeing his own place. One day he must bring the camera up here and take a photograph of it. Every year aerial photographers flew over and then tried to sell you their work for extortionate sums. He'd do just that one day, a D-I-Y job, for kicks. Jackie would have liked that. You couldn't quite see Gwyther's yet because it was further on, beyond the Knoll, and when you did see it you could almost convince yourself that you had stepped back in time. Nothing had changed since Bill's father's day and probably wouldn't now. A slow process of decay, timbered outbuildings patched up, moss growing on them; mud and cattle dung so deep that in winter you needed four-wheel drive to get in and out of the yard.

The lane was starting a downward slope now, the final run-in to Gwyther's. Jon let his foot rest on the brake, slowed up more than he needed to. He didn't really have to call on the old man. Damn it, he didn't bother in normal times, avoided it whenever possible, only went there when it was necessary. It was necessary now, oh Christ, it was.

He rounded the bend, saw the farm; just as it had always been except that part of the big cowshed roof had finally caved in. More than likely the storm the other night had been responsible for that. Slowly he eased the Land Rover into the yard, eyes scanning the rectangular tract of hard baked mud with only the odd puddle or two showing below the outbuilding walls. Dereliction at its worst, stable doors tied up with binder string, a heap of scrap, outdated broken machinery that should have been cleared a quarter of a century ago littering one corner. But no sign of life.

Jon came to a halt in front of the house, switched the engine off and prayed that it would start again when he wanted it to. Sitting there, watching and waiting, aware that his pulses were pounding. He was sweating and it wasn't just because of the heat.

He didn't like coming here, always felt ill at ease. The old boy hated you, you could see it in those bright blue eyes as they bored into you. What right have you coming here from the town and buying a place? There are plenty of farmers' sons who were forced to move away to find work who ought to have your holding. They've a right to it, you haven't. It's heritage that counts, not deeds and fancy title papers. You won't do any good here with your daft ideas. Sheep and cattle are farming, nothing else. You're playing at it.

Jon took a deep breath, reached over in the back for the shotgun. What are you bringing a gun here for, boy? He almost drew his hand away. No, he'd take the gun because he might need it. That dog could be around, or the bull might be loose.