One

'I've never been to London afore,' Aidan said. He was scratching the top of his plaster cast. Jane hoped the break would heal well. If they couldn't find anybody good at setting bones they would either have to find a textbook and learn or walk around wrapped in cotton wool. He'd done his mandatory First Aid courses. He knew how to perform cardio-pulmonary resuscitation and dress a wound with a piece of glass sticking out of it. But what if Becky severed an artery? What if Aidan fractured his skull?

'London's great,' Jane said. 'Especially for people who don't live there.'

'What's in London?'

'What isn't?'

'Are there helicopters in London?'

'Yes,' Jane said. 'And a big zoo. And parks so big it would take you a day to walk across them. And a big wheel that you can ride on.'

'How big? As big as the Earth?'

'Nearly.'

'Woah,' Aidan said. He was thoughtful for a while. 'Dad took me and Kerry on a big wheel at the fair.'

'This one is much bigger than that.'

'How do you know?'

'Trust me.'

They turned and made their way back to the motorhome. Jane could see Becky wrapped in a bed sheet, drying her hair. He whistled and waved so that she would know they were on their way back, although he supposed privacy was the least of their worries. The land either side of the road was wreathed in mist. He shook away a conviction of creatures in white masks just beyond its margins, watching them intently. He oughtn't to have left Becky to bathe alone, but something about these pursuers told him that it was all right. They were too timid. They seemed, for all their menace, to be in thrall to him, if that was the right word for it. A thought occurred to him, of protection, but he couldn't move beyond that inclination. He had surprised himself with it. It seemed an absurd notion. But the image of the bodies hanging from those great posts in the ground. The injuries they had sustained. It was like punishment. A statement, or a warning. Chris had physically attacked him, and he'd ended up on one of those posts.

By the time they got back to the motorhome, Becky had made breakfast. Mugs of tea, tinned fruit, a box of cheese crackers she'd found at the back of a cupboard. Aidan got into the bath and Jane remembered the boat. He tossed it in after him. Aidan pushed it around on the water, pretending there were people on board falling into the sea and being eaten by sharks. He got out, shivering, and Becky wrapped him in a bed sheet.

'Is there anything we can take with us?' Jane asked.

'Can't we take the motorhome?' Aidan asked.

'Afraid not,' Becky said. 'The engine's kaput.'

'What means ''kaput''?'

'Broken,' Jane said.

'Dad says ''knackered''.'

'Knackered works.'

They ate breakfast and rifled the drawers and cupboards. Aidan pointed at a door under the rear bed that opened into storage space.

'Good boy, Aidan,' Jane said. 'Nice work.'

They found a case of shrink-wrapped mineral water, a tin of Quality Street chocolates, blankets and waterproof coats. A tripod and a camera bag. Jane unzipped the case and pulled out a pre-digital Nikon SLR. It was loaded with film. Three exposures taken. He thought about taking it with him, but he didn't know anything about development. Enlargers wouldn't work any more. Safelights wouldn't work any more. He had never been into photography before. And it wasn't as if the world hankered for a couple of family portraits while it smouldered to cinders and ash.

He tossed the camera back into the cabin.

'Look,' said Aidan. He'd been at the glove compartment and found passports, a bunch of keys, and a wallet.

'Mr and Mrs Lewis,' Jane read. 'From Plymouth.' The wallet contained one hundred and fifty pounds, credit cards, photo-booth snaps he didn't look at. He put it all back.

They rolled the blankets up, stuffed them inside black bin liners and strapped them to the top of their rucksacks.

'Thanks, Mr and Mrs Lewis,' Aidan said.

They walked south.

The things they saw.

A woman in a lay-by wrapped around a child, their ribcages fused together.

A man in a car, its windscreen blasted and molten, reset across his face in a syrupy gyre of bone and slag.

A dog on a leash impaled by what looked like part of a human femur.

'I'm hungry,' Aidan said.

'Can we stop for a while?' Becky asked. Something in her voice made Jane look up sharply. He couldn't tell if she were angry, or scared. Or both.

They got off the A1 and followed a track through a field to a farmhouse.

'Where are we?' Aidan asked.

'Yorkshire,' Jane said. 'Britain's largest county. Home of the pudding. And tea so strong you could arm wrestle with it.'

'I've had Yorkshire pudding,' Aidan said.

'I should hope so,' Jane said.

'And that thing you put on it. Brown juice.'

'Gravy.'

'Yes. I like that.'

'I'll make you some. I promise.'

'Richard.' Becky was frowning at him. 'Don't promise.'