In the morning I try to gather my resolve. We’ve come this far. Our options are limited and at least now we know that we’re looking for a city.

‘Let’s go,’ I say to Kay, and I try to mean it.

As we’re leaving the house, I notice a shoehorn on the tiny table in the hallway. ‘My grandmother had one of these,’ I say, picking it up.

‘Grandmother?’ Kay asks.

‘She’s dead now.’

‘Who is?’

‘My grandmother,’ I repeat.

Kay shakes her head. ‘Your what?’

Sometimes the absence of a piece of vocabulary shows so clearly something that Kay missed out on in life that it makes me catch my breath. ‘Grandmother is your mother’s mother. Or your father’s mother.’

‘My?’

‘Or anyone’s. Everyone has a grandmother.’

Kay blinks with surprise.

‘Although, of course they might be dead like mine, or you may never have met them.’

‘Why would you be meeting them?’

King hell. That’s such a sad thing to say. ‘Well . . . some kids aren’t sent away to school like me and you. They live with their parents and quite often they spend time with grandmothers or grandfathers or a whole load of other people who are connected to you by your parents. They’re called your family. You should have lived with your family. Me too.’

‘But why do people have the time with those grand people?’

‘I suppose because they love each other.’

‘Why? Just because of the connecting to your mum and dad thing?’

‘Sort of.’ I think about before I went to the Learning Community when we would visit my grandmother and she always read me the same book about jungle animals. ‘When you grow up with someone and spend time together and they take care of you and . . . I don’t know, it’s hard to explain. Sometimes families don’t love each other, sometimes they hate each other.’ I look at Kay’s furrowed brow. This makes no sense to her because she’s never had someone care for her in the way that families do. ‘This is one of the things that needs to change about this country,’ I say. ‘Everyone should get the chance to be with their family.’

Kay shrugs. ‘Maybe, but I’m not going to love any person just because of that. I’m going to choose who I love.’

We drink all of the water that has gathered in our collection of containers, except what we can fit in the two empty jam jars. I screw the lids on and put them in the bag for later.

Getting back in the saddle is painful. My thigh muscles start to burn before we’ve gone very far. Kay doesn’t complain, so neither do I.

After a while she looks over at me. I wonder if she’s thinking about last night and I can’t stop myself from smiling.

‘Blake? Remember when you told me all about when you were Learning Community and the men hurt you and your friend, and the policeman was all saying, “Don’t tell the Academy your name”?’

It was only a few months ago that P.C. Barnes told me to change my name to Blake, but it feels like years. ‘I remember. What about it?’

‘What was your name? Your name that you had first?’

‘My real name is Jackson. John Jackson.’ It feels strange on my lips.

‘Do you want me to call you Jackson?’

I’m not sure of the answer to that. There was a time when I couldn’t wait to stop being Blake. I wanted to escape from the Academy and to get back to my old life. But now . . .

‘I can’t go back to being Jackson,’ I say.

‘No?’

‘I’m not the same person.’

‘Don’t you want to be Jackson?’

‘No, I don’t think I do. When I was Jackson I thought I knew it all. I thought I’d done all this great stuff like passing exams and winning prizes, but really the best things I’ve ever done have been as Blake. I’ve learnt what’s really important. And I’ve found you.’

Kay gives me a look that makes me forget to steer my bike for a second.

I take a deep breath. ‘I used to think labels were important,’ I say, ‘but now I think it’s more about what you do. Does any of that make sense?’

‘Yes. I don’t mind it what you’re called. I just like you,’ she says.

Suddenly pedalling doesn’t feel like such hard work any more.

We cycle for miles without seeing any signs of life. My skin feels dusty and when I run a hand through my hair I find flakes of something that looks like ash. The longer we ride the grimier I feel.

We pass through the remains of several bombed-out towns that must have been home to a lot of people. Often nothing recognisable is left standing. Where houses and shops do remain upright they are in bad shape; paint peeling, wood rotting, tiles missing. We pass a block of flats with unbroken windows, but there is no shine coming off the smeared glass; it’s like looking up at dozens of dead eyes.

In the afternoon we start up a steep hill. It’s hard going, even for super-fit Kay. We’ve barely had anything to eat for the last few days and our water is running low.

Finally we reach the top of the hill.

What we see beneath us takes my breath away.