‘A bit, yeah. But it’s better than digging up sodding vegetables.’

DogNut laughed. ‘What’s your name, soldier?’

‘Andy. You’re called Dog’s Bollocks, or something, aren’t you?’

‘Close enough.’

‘I remember you from the museum. Your lot gave us these guns.’

‘Yeah. You ever fired it?’

‘Nah.’ Andy laughed and they slapped palms.

‘I always wanted to stay with you lot,’ Andy went on. ‘David wouldn’t let us, though. Said we had to stick together. Between you and me, David’s a prick.’

‘For real?’ said DogNut in mock amazement. ‘You learn something new every day. But tell me, Andy, my manz. Has anyone ever got over these walls?’

‘Nah, it’s impossible.’ Andy didn’t sound that convincing.

‘For sure? No one’s climbed in – no one’s climbed out?’

Andy made a face, deciding whether to keep a secret. He looked around, checking nobody could see them.

‘If I tell you something, will you promise never to let anyone know it was me that told you?’

‘Sure, bruv.’

‘There is a way over. Some of the kids worked it out. They jammed the spikes so they won’t turn and cut a section of wire. They fixed it back up again so if you didn’t know what to look for you’d never know. David never looks, anyway.’

‘Why’d they do that?’

‘To get in and out. David doesn’t let us otherwise.’

‘To get away from here?’

‘No. But some of the kids take stuff, food and whatever, and they trade it with other kids out there from the other settlements.’

‘Not you, though, soldier?’

‘Never had the guts. Besides I’ve got a blazer, so I have privileges. Wouldn’t want to lose them.’

‘So are you going to tell me where this safe way out is?’

Andy shook his head and looked at his shoes. ‘I’ve told you too much already. If David found out …’

Andy fell silent as they heard someone approaching through the trees. He looked miserable. Like a kid waiting to see the headmaster. It was only Courtney, though. Andy relaxed and smiled at her.

Courtney nodded dismissively at him and turned her attention to DogNut.

‘There you are,’ she said, sounding tired and grumpy. ‘I been looking all over.’

‘Just taking a likkle stroll,’ said DogNut. ‘You know. Stretching the old pins.’

‘Yeah, right.’

DogNut said goodbye to Andy and walked back towards the palace with Courtney.

‘David wants us to stay for dinner,’ she explained. ‘But Al’s got some news that might change things.’

‘Cool,’ said DogNut. ‘Hit me with it.’

‘I’ll let Al tell you himself.’

15

Shadowman was in his tent, zip down, sitting cross-legged on his sleep mat, checking his belongings before going out for the night. He could hear loud voices all around. It was always noisy here in the shanty town at the end of the park. There was always a cacophony of barking dogs, laughter, shouting, arguments, joking, singing. Even babies crying. He couldn’t imagine bringing any babies into this mad world, but a couple of the girls had got themselves pregnant and somehow survived childbirth.

The tent was tiny. It had been advertised in the camping shop where he’d found it as a two-man, but it could barely fit one. That was fine with him. He didn’t want company. He worked alone. Was happier that way. Didn’t want to be weighted down with people, belongings, responsibilities. He travelled light. Everything he owned except for his sleeping bag could fit into his slim backpack. It had been designed to carry a laptop and suited him perfectly, as, slung across his back underneath his cloak, it lay flat against his body. Nobody could tell he was carrying it.

He had emptied his pockets and tipped out the contents of his pack on to his sleeping bag and was sorting through them, something he did regularly. It was a habit, really, or an obsession. A little ritual to bring him luck and keep him safe. He would touch each of the objects, remind himself why he carried it and carefully, lovingly, put it back in its place. Like a labourer with his tools, a soldier with his kit.

There wasn’t much to it.

Some emergency food – beef jerky, dried fruit, stale chocolate, a mini A-to-Z book of every street in London, a Swiss Army knife, a compass, a cigarette lighter and a box of matches in a waterproof bag with a couple of small candles, a sewing kit, a knife sharpener for the sheath knife he carried on his belt, a small set of tools that packed away into a neat flat box, a tin plate and cutlery set designed for campers, a torch, spare batteries, a tiny compact pair of binoculars, a couple of biros and some paper, a first-aid kit with bandages and antiseptic cream and painkillers, a paperback novel that he’d throw away when he’d finished it and replace with a new one, gaffer tape for repairs, a spare pair of socks and thermal vest. He didn’t bother to lug about any other clothes. He hardly ever washed and it was easy, in this new London, to pick up new clothes in any one of the hundreds of abandoned stores. He wanted to be able to ship out and move on at a moment’s notice. He slept in his clothes, with his boots and his backpack safely stowed away in the bottom of his sleeping bag. He could be up, into his boots, with his pack across his back, his water canisters clipped to his belt and his cloak wrapped around him in less than a minute. He’d timed it and practised his technique every week or so.

He wouldn’t take the tent with him when he left the camp. He’d leave it for someone else to use. It was easier to find a new one if he ever needed it. Quite frankly, he preferred sleeping indoors under a proper roof. He’d take the sleeping bag, though, rolled up and slung across his shoulders.

He wondered why these kids had chosen to live in tents and makeshift huts rather than in buildings. It was certainly more dangerous. Though the kids seemed to welcome danger. Perhaps they wanted adults to attack? They did seem to love fighting. A mother and a father had got into the camp last week and they’d been chased around by a jeering mob armed with sticks and stones. By the time the kids had finished with them their battered and pulped bodies looked barely human.

That was what they thought of adults, and maybe they lived here in their camp because they didn’t want anything more to do with the world of grown-ups, though Shadowman doubted they could ever explain that. They weren’t given to deep thought. They lived day to day, hand to mouth, didn’t look forward or back, didn’t question what they were doing. They were like him in that way.

He filled his pockets and slotted the last couple of items in his pack, which had lots of little compartments. Everything had its place and the vest kept it all from rattling about. Satisfied, he stood up, slipped the single wide diagonal strap over his head and put on his cloak. The kids in the shanty town wore a bizarre mix of stuff that they’d looted, bits of military clothing, odd fashion items, punky stuff, leather jackets, fancy dress, as if they were all trying to outdo each other with their wackiness, so Shadowman didn’t stand out in his cloak. In other circumstances, with different kids, he might have taken it off, rolled it up and worn it over his shoulders as if it was a blanket, but here in the camp he felt he could wear anything he liked and not be noticed.

The camp was its usual chaotic, squalid mess. The biggest problem kids had since the disaster was boredom. This must have been what it was like going to war, the stories he’d read about soldiers whose days were filled with unrelenting boredom, punctuated every now and then by brief moments of extreme terror and violence. That was what life was like now for everyone. There was no TV, no computers, no mobile phones or Xboxes; there was nothing to do except try to stay alive.

The shanty town had been largely built on the solid footing of the parade ground, but it spilt over on to the grass in the park where a group of kids was playing football. The ball was a bit flat; that was a permanent problem. Balls were too easily punctured and very hard to repair. A fully pumped football was something of a precious treasure.