One

'Patience, my dear,' Plessey said, and the performer in him was at the fore again. He moved the rod to a point on the coil that had been marked with blue felt pen, and this time Jane heard a distinct difference. The white noise was reduced. There was a rhythmic sound, a weird, percussive sound that Jane couldn't identify, until Plessey, at his shoulder, said, 'That . . . I think that might be hammers.'

Now that he'd said it, Jane couldn't understand how he could have heard anything but. After about ten minutes, they heard something else. It sounded like a chair being scraped across a wooden floor.

'Here we go,' Plessey said. 'Bang on schedule.'

Jane had to sit down himself when he heard the voice. It was female. It sounded as though she was from Wales. There was a musical undercurrent to her words. He barely registered what she was saying, he was so tied up in the moment of hearing a voice that wasn't in the immediate vicinity. But she repeated it:

This is Radio Free UK calling all survivors. If you are out there and you can hear this – I know it's a long shot, but what can you do? – then please do not give in. There is a way out of this. There is safety. You will find us off the south-east coast. Coordinates as follows: 50°, 54', 37"N, 0°, 58', 55"E. The raft exists. There is an escape. We are anchored off Dungeness, Kent. We launch in a week. We can take a hundred people. The raft exists.

The sound of footsteps moving off. The sound of the wind across an open doorway.

'They repeat the message every quarter of an hour,' Plessey said, switching off the radio. The disappearance of the sound was a wrench for Jane; he jerked towards the unit as if he was about to try to switch it back on. Plessey didn't notice. 'Sometimes it's the girl you've just heard. Other times there's an older woman, sounds like a newsreader – received pronunciation, you know. And there's also a chap, sounds as though he's from the West Country. They've never said, but I get the impression they've already got a fair-sized group down there.'

'Why?' asked Jane. He was thinking of Stanley, left behind in the city of butchers while everyone escaped.

'A raft,' Plessey said. 'For one hundred? Hardly the work of a carpenter and his gofer, no?'

'It's a trap,' Becky said. 'These people are being forced to lure survivors down there. They'll be waiting for us. With the fucking salt and pepper.'

'I don't think so,' Plessey said. 'They're doing well enough in the city, slowly picking us off. How many of us are left, do you think?'

'It's hard to say.' Jane shrugged. 'Latest estimates put us at around three to four thousand, give or take. The main survival hot spots are at Angel, Victoria and London Zoo.'

'They're running out of food and they know it,' Becky said, her voice becoming edged with panic and indignation. 'They're chasing us to the corners of the country.'

Plessey shook his head. 'Not the case. There's a stiff cordon of Skinners all across the southern city limits, ditto north too, building across the North Circular. They're tightening the noose, preventing escapes. There's no evidence to suggest they're moving out, hunting survivors in other parts of the country. Remember, they don't need to. Wherever we are, they are.'

'We have to make a break for it. As many as possible,' Jane said. 'If they can make one raft, they can build more, or come back for the stragglers.'

Becky was rubbing her hands together hard enough for their rasping to cut through his words. He had noticed this always happening whenever plans were discussed, change considered. She was frightened of any challenge to the status quo, and frightened of the status quo too. She recognised this paradox within herself, but it didn't make it any easier to deal with.

'What about Aidan?' she said. 'I know he likes to do his own thing, but he's been away longer than usual. I worry he's been . . . I think he might . . .'

Plessey shut away the radio in the desk drawer and lightly clapped his hands together.

'Look,' he said, 'would you care to stay here tonight? I insist, really. It's far too late for you to get back to the centre, and anyway, why would you want to? I have some mushroom soup, a large tin I'd like to break into, but much more than I can eat by myself and I wouldn't want it to go to waste.'