One

They kept giving Nance nervous glances and now Jane saw that her feet were still unshod and they were bleeding badly. She was still glassy-eyed from her crazed little jaunt.

'I've got a First Aid kit back at the road,' he said. 'We should get you sorted out. An infection is not something you want.'

Four of them started to walk the short distance to Front Street while Brendan hurried back to the castle to collect their things. It was slow going. Angela had to keep stopping to catch her breath. She didn't so much inhale as seize at the air, her head jerking back as if she'd been punched. Nobody said anything, but Jane could sense Chris and Nance's dismay. He felt like rounding on them, pointing the finger, telling Nance that if she hadn't lost it they'd have walked right by and Brendan and Angela would most probably have starved to death in each other's arms, afraid to re-engage with a world that had burned itself out around them.

Brendan was much more sprightly when he returned. A plan had stiffened him. His eyes no longer seemed like rain made flesh. He had two coats – thin, flimsy affairs – and a canvas bag that held a couple of books and a make-up bag. Jane checked their feet. Brendan wore brown brogues; Angela a pair of deck shoes. He fished out a bicycle mask and handed it to the woman. She put it on and looked at him over the edge of it with expectation, as if this alone might cure her of her disease.

'We'll find you some proper clothes and shoes as soon as we can,' Jane said. 'All of the cars have been knocked out of order. Electrics fried, or something. So, we have to walk.' He looked at Angela. 'Can you manage that?'

'I'll try,' she said, but then she turned to Brendan. 'Maybe I should stay here. You can come back for me when you get to Newcastle. Find help.'

Brendan was shaking his head almost at the moment she started speaking. 'No way, love. No. We all go together. We stick together. I'm not leaving you.'

Jane sighed. If they didn't find some way of transporting Angela they'd be stopping every few minutes. It would take them weeks to get to Newcastle, a distance of around forty miles that he'd have been able to march in four days. He silently cursed Chris and Nance. And Angela and Brendan. He felt a sudden impulse to just take off, to leave them to sort out their problems. He had a son to find. Stanley might be injured. His mother might be dead. The thought of him alone, crying for his daddy, knifed Jane every time he thought of it. There was no build-up of resistance where children were concerned. You didn't get over the stifling worry, the cotton in the mouth, the frantic slam of the heart. It was the price you paid for love, he supposed. He wanted to articulate this to the others, to offer an apology, when Angela reached out and held his hand. Her skin was surprisingly soft and cool.

'Thank you,' she said. 'Thank you so much.'

'That doesn't look right, does it?' Chris asked.

They were a mile from Front Street. It had taken them three hours. Jane was considering picking Angela up and carrying her. She took a few puffs from her inhaler but the canister sounded as though it was empty when she shook it. Jane was about to ask Chris which of around a million not-right things he could possibly be referring to, when he saw how the sky had assumed a closed aspect. It didn't look as granular as it had earlier in the day. The sickly brown colour had deepened. It appeared solid, but as Jane stared he saw that there was movement; the wall bulged and shrank infinitesimally, like the slow explosion of storm clouds.

'There was a mist, a fog, first few days I landed,' he said. 'Maybe this is that in a different form. Dirtier. Maybe it's fog that's become polluted. A pea-souper.'

None of them were agreeing with him. Nobody was saying a word. They stared at the dimpling umber wall as it came on. Jane dropped his gaze to its foot and saw how fast it was really moving; it ate the ground. He'd once seen footage of a pyroclastic flow after Mount Unzen had erupted in Japan. A cloud of superheated ash hurtling down the mountain at over two hundred miles per hour.

'That's not fog,' Brendan said. 'That's a dust storm.'

Now Jane did pick up Angela. She squawked her indignation and started berating him, but he ignored her.

'Come on,' he shouted, and headed for a large farmhouse at the edge of the field. It was in bad condition. Fire had gutted it; the roof was partially caved in. But there was one corner that looked relatively solid despite the lack of windows.

'Get your tent ready, Chris,' Jane called.

'But it's only a two-man job.'

'Get it fucking ready.'