THE MORNING DAWNED SILENTLY OUTSIDE the police station that had become his womb. He showered, ate breakfast and stood by the reception desk at the front door for a long time before leaving the building’s safety. The sun was shining and the office clock said it was 11am.
He stepped outside, walked to the corner and turned left towards the town. The street was lined with parked cars, but deserted. He felt vulnerable, as if someone might be watching from a rooftop or a window, and he crossed the road to be in the shadows. He went carefully, listening for sounds, looking for life – fearful of finding it.
Near the town centre branch of Sainsbury’s, he heard breaking glass. He approached from the far side of the street, hiding behind parked cars, but could see nothing except that one of the large windows had been smashed open and the shards cleared for easier access.
This had been done earlier; it was not the recent sound of breakage he had heard. He crossed the road and peered inside. Stock had been spilled in the aisles and he could hear the clink of bottles. The sound of a trolley being pushed got louder.
‘Why do I always get one with funny wheels?’ slurred a man.
Reaper was watching for the trolley to appear and didn’t see the woman come out of another aisle with boxes in her arms.
‘Bugger off!’ she shouted. ‘This is ours!’
The woman was middle-aged and large and looked even larger in a fur coat. Her blonde hair sat strangely on her head and he realised it was a wig. Her face was flushed and she was angry. Possession was nine tenths of the law, her expression declared, and they possessed Sainsbury’s.
‘What is it?’ shouted the slurring man, the trolley increasing in speed and suddenly coming into view. It was filled with cases of beer and bottles of spirits and wine. The man was Reaper’s age and he wore white jogging pants and top and new trainers. He was tall with broad shoulders and a large belly. With him was a younger, smaller man in designer jeans and T-shirt.
He was skinny with ratty eyes and carried a Samurai sword. The large man stopped the trolley and lifted out a cricket bat that he wielded threateningly.
‘What do you want?’ he demanded.
The first on the streets were the pillagers and rapists.
Honest folk would be cowering in their homes waiting for authority to reassert itself. Reaper said nothing, but backed away to the street and moved out of sight.
He continued on his way, taking great care not to stumble upon another such group: people who, a few weeks before, might have been law-abiding enough because of the strictures of the society in which they lived, but now, because of shock, loss, lack of social cohesion and absence of police, had decided to take what they could, while they could. He suspected that if anyone stood in their way, they would have no hesitation in using whatever weapons they carried.
He heard other sounds of breaking glass in the distance as he walked. After some five minutes, the sound of running feet caused him to withdraw into the shadow of a shop doorway and he watched as a young couple scurried up a side street, followed a short while later by two older men. He reached Albert Square.
Much of it was a paved area, with benches and flowerbeds and ornamental lamps. The railway station and its forecourt dominated the north side. The three-star Albert Hotel was to the east. The other two sides were imposing, with Victorian architecture in the grand style; office buildings on the west side, while South Parade had upmarket shops, café bars and restaurants at ground floor level, and flat conversions above for the young and upwardly mobile. There were still, surprisingly, three taxi cabs at the rank outside the station, but only one contained the body of a driver.
Reaper crouched by the taxis, waited and watched.
Two of the bars on South Parade had smashed windows. He went into the Albert Hotel and heard a voice speaking in normal, conversational tones. He was surprised and felt a surge of relief – then disappointment when he realised it was coming from a television. He followed the sound into the Tudor Bar that had once served a fine pint of Timothy Taylor. The décor was mock Tudor with exposed beams, chunky tables and well-upholstered seating and a large TV screen was fitted to the wall. A barman, in pale blue jacket and black trousers, lay dead in a club chair, with a half empty bottle of vodka and a glass in front of him on a table. He looked peaceful. Perhaps the pills had helped; there was an empty blister pack beside the bottle.
The man on the television screen was vaguely familiar. Perhaps a minor figure in the Government?
Reaper guessed what he was seeing was being repeated on a loop. There was a message of ‘God bless and good luck’, a fixed stare and the screen went blank before the loop started again. A message was shown and read by an anonymous presenter: An announcement on behalf of Her Majesty’s Government by the Right Honourable Geoffrey Smith, it said.
The Right Honourable Geoffrey Smith looked out at what was left of the country with tired, defeated eyes behind heavy-framed glasses. He had a moustache that looked as if it had already died, and wispy hair combed across a bald patch. Vanity unto death. He read from a script.
‘By now, you will all be aware of the terrible effects of the SARS pandemic. It is estimated that 50 per cent of the population has already died of this dreadful virus, and we fear that many more will succumb. Hospitals are full, and medical staff have fallen victim at the same rate as the civilian population. All known medicines have failed to stop the devastating effects of what scientists have described as “a virus aberration”. No one could have foreseen this modern plague, and no one, it seems, can save us from it, not just here in Britain, but all around the world. We don’t know when this pandemic will end. But we do know there are some who have a natural immunity. This small percentage is, at present, our only hope for the survival of the human race. All I can do is urge you all to make your peace with your god and remain in the safety of your homes as we truly face the apocalypse. God bless. And good luck.’
Reaper took a bottle of Mexican lager from a cold cabinet behind the bar, flipped off the top and drank.
The message repeated and annoyed him. When it started a third time, he threw the bottle at the screen, which smashed in an electric frizzle. Silence returned. He was getting used to silence. Apocalypse? Survival of the human race? He had seen some of the survivors and they hardly filled him with hope. He headed out, and had reached the front door of the hotel when a movement on South Parade caught his attention and he stepped back into cover.
Three people. An obese man with a shotgun carried carelessly over his shoulder, a young girl carrying plastic shopping bags and another male, well built, also with a shotgun, were walking in single file. The obese man held a long chain that was attached to a dog collar around the girl’s neck. When she stumbled, he yanked upon the chain to make her keep up. Reaper’s fists clenched and unclenched as he watched them go into the entrance of the flats opposite, and he suddenly realised what he had to do.
He left the hotel by the rear entrance and made his way back to the police station. It was a relief to return to somewhere familiar and he sank into the chair behind the reception desk. Had anybody been here in his absence? He hoped that wrongdoers would stay away, that they would want nothing to do with a police station. One thing he was sure of: that society, no matter what form into which it might evolve, would never take advantage of him again.
He went through the building to one of the bodies he had found on a lower floor. It was that of an armed police officer. Was he still contagious? Reaper didn’t care. He unfastened the belt and holster from around the man’s waist, took out the Glock handgun and walked a few yards further to an unmarked door. If necessary, he would shoot off the hinges. He didn’t have to; to his amazement it was unlocked. He stepped inside the armoury. Another dead body lay on the floor inside the room. This one was riper. The flies were beginning to gather. He ignored the smell and the buzzing insects and wrested a bunch of keys from cold fingers.
Reaper thanked God – if He existed – that no one had beaten him to it.
He unlocked the cabinets and cupboards. He put on a Kevlar vest and smiled grimly at the familiar weight. He knew the Glock handgun had a 17 round capacity magazine of 9mm bullets. Why have only one when he could have two? Ten per cent of the population were left handed, and armouries usually had a similar percentage among their supplies. He found a left-handed holster and fitted that onto the belt as well.
He fastened the belt around his waist. The handguns were held in Viper drop-leg holsters that strapped around the thigh at hand height. He loaded a second Glock with a full magazine and slid it home. He also took a Heckler and Koch G36 carbine with a 12 inch barrel and fitted scope that had a 30 round curved magazine. He put extra magazines for both weapons in the pockets of the vest and in his holster belt.
There were 10 carbines and twice that many handguns in the armoury, plus Kevlar vests and ammunition. He dragged the body of the officer in the corridor into an office supply store room, then went back for the armoury officer. He put him in the same place.
Reaper intended to return to the weapons room and he preferred it cleared of ripe corpses. On impulse, he took the police cap that the armed officer had been wearing and put it on his head. He locked the door.
Just in case.
Reaper went through the station to the rear of the building, to the yard where vehicles were parked. He found the Vauxhall Astra patrol car that matched the fob on the keys he had taken from the cabinet behind the main station desk. He placed his carbine in the passenger well and fastened the seat belt before he got in so that he could drive unbelted without the annoying warning noise. The car started first time and the fuel gauge registered half a tank of petrol. He reversed, manoeuvred and drove through the open gate into the side street. He had the windows down and could smell the smoke.
He joined the dual carriage ring road and began a slow circuit. Past the multi-storey car park, there was an accident. One car had rear-ended another and the vehicles sat, crumpled together, half on and half off the pavement outside a pub called The Horse and Jockey. He passed one or two cars that had been abandoned at the side of the road but none of them appeared to contain bodies. Side streets were orderly, lined with parked cars. Smoke rose from an industrial estate beyond the ring road. Between buildings, he could see more smoke from a smaller fire in the city itself.
A bigger shunt had occurred at the underpass and traffic had backed up behind. Half a dozen abandoned cars blocked the road. He drove across the central reservation onto the wrong side of the road and continued. By the time he had completed a circuit and was back outside the police station, he had seen three bodies at the side of the road, but no one alive. He turned into the town itself and cruised the silent streets that he had earlier travelled on foot. He stopped at the Sainsbury’s near the bus station, but the trio he had seen earlier had gone. He guessed that, at the sight of a police car, those with dubious motives would stay out of the way.
He got out of the car, carrying the carbine in the crook of his arm. He stepped through the broken window into the store. The electricity was still on. He had been taking it for granted and suddenly wondered how long it would last. He walked the aisles and found broken products in the alcohol section and the result of what looked like a flour fight in baking. He went through a staff door into a warehouse and saw the bodies of a security guard, and a young man who was wearing the store’s uniform. He picked up a basket and went shopping: long-life milk, crackers, biscuits, part-baked bread, tins of chunky soup, frozen steaks and chocolate.
He bagged his goods and took them to the car. The streets were still deserted. The rumble of a distant explosion shook shards of glass from the broken window and had him dropping beside the vehicle in a reflex motion. A gas leak? Smoke rose from the bus station in a mushroom cloud. He got back behind the wheel and drove up the street and watched the flames in the One Stop Café. Through the bus station entrance, he could see half a dozen double-deckers still at their ranks. The flames would spread to the rest of the one storey complex but was unlikely to jump to the buildings across the concourse.
Reaper continued his tour. Maybe most of the surviving population had been evacuated? The window of a fashion store had been smashed and clothing was strewn around outside. Every pharmacy he drove past had been broken into. Maybe they had been looking for Tamiflu. Or heroin. Or anything else that might help them escape the nightmare, either through temporary or permanent oblivion. For a fleeting second he considered the option. A couple of bottles of strong sedatives and a pint of whisky and it would all be over. Except that this was both his punishment and his destiny. This was why he had survived.
He avoided Albert Square but, elsewhere in the city, he stopped occasionally to wind down his window, sound the horn and listen for a response. Near the civic centre, outside a tower block of 1960s concrete and glass flats, he heard a voice. Feeble and female, crying for help. He got out and walked towards the cries that came from a window on the first floor.
‘Hello?’ he shouted.
‘Help me! Please help me!’ An elderly voice at the end of her endurance.
‘What’s the number of your flat?’
‘Eighteen!’
‘I’m coming!’
The door to the block was locked, entry gained by keying in a code. He levelled the carbine and fired three shots into each hinge. The wood splintered and the door sagged. He kicked it and it sagged some more.
Another kick and it fell inwards. He climbed the stairs and found Flat 18. The door was locked.
‘Are you there?’ he called.
‘Here!’
‘Stay back. I’ll have to kick the door in.’
One good kick levelled at the lock loosened it. A second crashed it open.
The room was overstocked with furniture. Framed photographs covered a mantelpiece and sideboard. A frail woman in her seventies or maybe eighties lay on the rug in front of the fireplace. Her gaze was pathetic.
‘I’ve messed myself,’ she said.
‘That’s all right, love.’ He crouched by her side and stroked the hair from her brow. ‘I’ll sort it out.’ Her lips were parched. ‘When did you last have a drink?’
‘Two . . . three days ago. I fell. I’ve broken something, I don’t know what. But it hurts.’
He put the carbine down and put one arm, beneath her back and another beneath her legs. He could smell her.
‘Shall I put you in your chair?’ he said.
She nodded.
‘If it hurts, I’ll stop.’ He lifted her gently and she winced and her face contorted in pain. She cried out, but it was easier to continue than put her back on the floor. He lowered her into an armchair that faced a blank TV set. She tried to ease herself into a more comfortable position but couldn’t. He noticed the way her left foot lay askew. Leg or hip?
‘I’ll get you a drink.’
He ran the tap in the kitchen, filled a cup and brought it back. She drank gratefully.
‘Thank you,’ she said, and winced. ‘Thank you. I thought I was a goner.’ She nodded towards the photographs. ‘My daughter and her family live in Manchester.’
She kept nodding at the pictures. ‘My grandchildren.
God knows what’s happened to them.’
‘Manchester missed the worst of it,’ he said. ‘They evacuated people into Manchester. Chances are, they’re all okay.’
‘Thank God!’ she breathed, and cried a little at the continuing pain.
‘I’ll call an ambulance,’ he said. ‘Get the medics here.
You’ll soon be in hospital and cleaned up. Get that hip sorted out.’
He picked up a photograph of a family group and handed it to her.
‘That’s my daughter Margaret,’ she said. ‘And John and Emma and Anna.’
Behind her chair, he took the Glock automatic from its holster and pulled back the slide to put a bullet in the chamber. He rattled the receiver from the phone.
‘Hello?’ he said. ‘I need an ambulance.’
He pointed the gun at her head and pulled the trigger.
Reaper walked into the kitchen and looked at the poverty of the place. A grotty town centre flat, full of old furniture and memories; a kitchen with half a pint of milk and a piece of cheese in the fridge, and a container of some kind of homemade stew. Clean pans and empty cupboards, save for a few tins and a few crusts of stale bread. And she had survived, been unaffected by the virus, but had fallen and lived for the last three days in pain and uncertainty. He suspected she had made her peace with God a long time ago.
He suddenly realised he didn’t know her name.
A purse in a sideboard drawer told him she was Cecilia Bradshaw. She was 81.
Cecilia had dropped the photograph when he shot her and he picked it up. He put it into her lifeless hands and pressed it against her bosom before he left.
He went back to police HQ, baked bread in the canteen and fried steak on a griddle. He was still wearing the police cap and took it off when he sat down to eat.
When he had finished, he didn’t pick it up again. It didn’t seem appropriate for mercy killings.
Cecilia wouldn’t have made it. All he could have done was prolong her agony. He could rationalise all day but it didn’t help. Best not to think about it. Maybe there was a god after all and this was part of his punishment.
In the early evening, he left the station on foot, still cradling the carbine that hung round his neck on a strap. Periodically, he would stop and shout, ‘Hello.’
His voice echoed back; the only response he got was from disturbed pigeons. There were few bodies on the streets or visible inside shop premises. Most people, it seemed, had gone home to die. Front rooms and bedrooms had become funeral parlours.
It started to rain. It was only a shower, but he had no coat and he looked for shelter. His attention was caught by The Great Outdoors, a specialist camping store. The door wasn’t locked and he entered, making a search for the corpse of an owner or shop worker who might have underestimated the severity of his illness, but the place was empty. A tent might be an option for the future but right now he was more interested in a camping stove. He chose one that came with two burners and a grill and packed it into a rucksack, along with pans, utensils and gas cylinders. A glance outside revealed that the streets were still deserted, but he took bundles of clothing and boots from racks deeper into the store to ensure he could not be seen.
He wasn’t prudish, but he didn’t want to be caught with his trousers down by anyone who might be a potential enemy.
He changed into navy-blue combat trousers with extra pockets, a pair of Doc Marten boots and navy blue T-shirt. The Kevlar vest went back on top and he strapped on the holsters. The boots were comfortable and strong enough to make kicking an optional weapon. The store had a lot of equipment and clothing he could use, if he lived long enough. He put a torch into the bag, along with a British Army all-purpose knife. A folding knife with a three-inch blade came in its own belt sheath, which he attached to his trouser belt. He also needed a watch too and unboxed one whose wrappings said as used by US Special Forces.
Great. Now he could invade Afghanistan.
The rain was not heavy but it was persistent. He put on a long, navy-blue waxed coat with a storm cape over the shoulders. It was loose enough for him to hold the carbine inside its drape. He stuck a waxed hat on his head that would fold and go in a pocket when the rain stopped. Finally, he chose a pair of light-weight Tornado binoculars with a seven times magni-fication and a built-in compass. They were well over
£100 but what the hell? They went into the bag too.
He would return but, for now, he shouldered the rucksack and made his way back to Sainsbury’s.
More shopping: this time for bottled water, tea bags, long-life milk, a stale loaf, pre-packed bacon and sausage, more frozen steaks. He stowed it all, shouldered the bag and took back streets to approach the Albert Hotel from the rear. There, a staff door was unlocked and interior lights were still on. He made his way into the kitchens and then stopped abruptly.
A chef was hanging from a rope attached to a butcher’s hook. A large chap in traditional white coat and check trousers. Flies circled his head. He had kicked a low stool away, presumably after consuming the greater part of the bottle of Remy Martin that was next to him on a stainless steel counter. An expensive bottle of courage.
Reaper wondered how many more had taken the same way out – after the despair of realising that the world they knew was at an end, that their loved ones were gone, that the future held nothing but uncertainty and pain. The chef was at the far end of the kitchen so he didn’t need to disturb the body as he continued along a corridor and found a staircase to the ground floor entrance foyer. He went up again, crossed a mezzanine floor, and up one more flight to where the rooms started. There was a smell of death that he was getting used to, not strong but pervasive.
The rooms at the front were suites and were locked, which was annoying. He left the rucksack and went down to reception. Thank goodness the hotel was old fashioned enough to have real keys and not electronic cards. He took a handful of the numbers he thought might be appropriate and went back upstairs. He found one that fitted and opened a door.
It was what he was looking for: a living room, bedroom and bathroom – and no previous occupant still in residence. He put the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside and locked the door. In the unlikely event of anyone else coming up here, they might think the sign had been there a long time and that something inside was dead and ripe.
He unpacked, set up the camping stove, lay out his food and placed a comfortable armchair by the window. It was just after seven. It hadn’t occurred to him before, but he should have requisitioned a CD
player too, while there was still power to use it. Maybe later. He made a mug of tea and took up his position in the armchair facing the row of bars and bistros to his left on South Parade. Bizarrely, many were still lit and half a dozen lights showed in the windows of the flats above. He checked them all through the binoculars then sat back into the gloom. He sipped his tea and waited.
They made their appearance at nine o’clock. Three men and a girl left the apartments and went into a bar called El Greco. There was no hesitation; it was a practised move. In front was the well-built young male. He wore jeans and a T-shirt and carried a shotgun against his left shoulder; over his right, he pulled the chain that dragged the girl. A short middle-aged man followed, looking decidedly incongruous wearing a suit while carrying a baseball bat. The third male was the obese younger man. He also held a shotgun.
Once they were inside, Reaper could see little, and so he put down his binoculars. He eased the window of his room open and heard music. Disco from a previous decade, not too loud. Perhaps they didn’t want to attract too much attention. He checked the Glocks and cocked them both before leaving the room and locking it behind him. He did not take the carbine or his coat. He left the hotel the same way he had entered, through the kitchens. He did not look at the dead chef.
The rain had stopped and the air was fresh after the cloying interior of the hotel. It took only a few minutes to reach South Parade. He crossed a road where nonexistent traffic was still being controlled by lights and smiled mirthlessly to himself when he realised that he’d still looked both ways. The town felt dead, abandoned by life and hope, and the muted sounds from the bistro bar were an intrusion on the wake.
He took the guns from their holsters. For a while he listened, back against the dark wall, next to the light that spilled from the bar. A chair scraped . . .someone laughed . . . another voice sang along to the music . . . feet shuffled to the beat. He took a glance inside but no one was looking his way. He assessed the situation.
The middle-aged man in the suit was sitting in a booth on his own, a grin upon his face as he watched the obese youth move his considerable bulk in time to the music. Fatman was swathed in gold chains, rings and bracelets. The girl was dancing with him but in a desultory fashion. She did not move away when he ran his hands over her body, but neither did she appear to be enjoying the experience. The middle-aged man’s eyes were fixed on the girl, who was dressed in a parody of sexual sophistication. High heels and a short black silk dress beneath which, Reaper could see, the men had made her wear stockings. Living the fantasy and who cared who suffered?
The girl was young but he was not good at judging the ages of the young. They all looked pretty much the same and he hadn’t looked too closely in the last few years. This girl was probably the first he had taken an interest in since Emily. She was about five four – even in the heels, short brown hair, slim with nice features. An ordinary girl whose value as a commodity had increased simply by surviving.
Now he was this close, he realised that the younger man was not as young as he had first thought. Probably in his thirties. A hard muscled body and a hard face.
The shotgun lay on the table in front of him and he was drinking from a pint glass. He was the one who was laughing as he made crude comments about the fat youth and the girl. The girl’s face was impassive beneath extreme Panda-like make-up – their idea again? – that had streaked with tears. Her mind had gone somewhere else. But how long would it be allowed to stay there?
Reaper quietly opened the door and stepped inside.
He kept his hands at his sides. The hard man stopped smiling and put a hand on the shotgun. Reaper stared at him and said, ‘Don’t.’
The hand remained on the stock but did not move.
The middle-aged man looked frightened. The obese youth was flustered; he turned and backed towards the bar. His small eyes darted all over the place: looking for orders from his leader, looking for salvation, looking for escape. His shotgun lay on the bar.
The girl was confused and stopped dancing several beats after her partner. She looked at Reaper but had trouble assessing the changing circumstances. Maybe she thought he was a new addition to the group.
Someone else she would have to service.
Reaper spoke to her.
‘What’s your name?’
Her gaze went from him to the hard man, looking for guidance.
‘It’s all right,’ Reaper continued, in a soft voice. ‘I’m not here to hurt you. What’s your name?’
Now she looked back at him.
‘Sandra,’ she said.
‘Do you want to be with these men, Sandra?’
More confusion. She looked round, uncertain.
‘She’s ours!’ the hard man said. ‘Fuck off and find your own!’
Reaper raised his right hand and shot the hard man in the chest. His body jumped in his seat and he slumped back against the red leather, his eyes wide in shock.
The obese youth turned and ran for a rear door.
Reaper pointed the gun in his left hand past Sandra and shot him in the back. The middle-aged man was terrified. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Please!’ He wet himself where he sat. Reaper shot him in the chest, too.
‘They won’t hurt you again, Sandra,’ he said, quietly.
‘No one will hurt you. I promise.’
Sandra had put her hands protectively to her chest, her eyes were as wide as the hard man’s, though she was alive. Reaper stepped slowly to her and, gently and tentatively, put an arm around her shoulders.
‘How old are you, Sandra?’
‘Eighteen.’
‘My daughter would have been eighteen. You’re safe with me. I won’t let anyone hurt you. Believe me.
You’re safe.’
The girl was too scared and too shocked to feel safe.
The obese youth on the floor behind her was still moving and making strangled breathing sounds. Reaper turned and put a bullet in the back of his head. Now Fatman finally stopped moving.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s leave this place.’
He led her across the square to the Albert Hotel and up to the first floor suite. He unlocked the door and ushered her inside. He switched on the light and said, ‘What you need is a nice cup of tea.’ He switched on the room’s electric kettle to boil the water. She remained standing in the middle of the room, frightened, wondering what might be expected of her. The black silk dress had been expensive but looked wrong on her. Too small, showing too much. The men had not allowed her to wear a bra and he doubted she was wearing underwear. Just the stockings and a garter belt. He was angry enough to want to go back and shoot them again.
If he had left them alive, they would have become a danger. If he had killed only the leader, the other two would still have been guilty, and were weak enough to follow the next bully to come along or rape the next unprotected woman they found. A week before, they might have been ostensibly normal citizens. Since then, they had transgressed and their deaths had been necessary. Their deaths had been . . . righteous. Reaper was a man like any man. He had sexual urges, but he also had a moral code. Even more relevant, he had a dead daughter.
‘Maybe you would like a bath?’ he said.
The girl glanced at him and looked away. A bath might be welcome but it meant removing her clothes.
He sat her on the sofa and made the tea. He loaded it with sugar that he found in sachets on the night stand.
‘Here,’ he said.
The girl took the mug.
‘I’ll see if the hot water works.’
To access the bathroom, he went through the bedroom. If the girl wanted to run, now was the time.
He ran the hot tap and, wonder of wonders, it came out hot. He let it run for a bath and took a large white towelling robe back into the living room. She was still there, sipping the tea.
‘You can put this on,’ he said. ‘And you can sleep in the bedroom. I’ll sleep on the sofa.’
‘Who are you?’ she said.
‘I’m the man who is going to look after you.’
‘Why?’
He smiled. ‘Because you need looking after.’ He handed her the robe. ‘Now, are you hungry?’
Again, she looked puzzled. This was not a conversation she had expected.
‘How about a steak sandwich? Or bacon? Sausage?’
He smiled and for the first time, the mask behind which she had retreated, cracked.
‘Steak would be good. They didn’t do food.’
‘Steak sandwich it is. And tomorrow, we’ll go shopping.’
This time she smiled in response. A small smile, but a start.