So only one link in every hundred.

But wouldn’t that mean that the chain would still snap?

As it turned out, of course, they were way off the mark. The agents of the Secret Government had been very thorough.

Nearly forty per cent of all vital systems failed.

Everything went down.

Everything.

Road-traffic signal systems: Gone.

Airport flight-control systems: Gone.

Railway point systems: Gone.

Telecommunications:Gone.

Banking systems: Gone.

Health-care facilities: Gone.

And they would all stay gone. Because all power had gone. The National Grid was dead.

And what about military hardware? What about their radar systems? And missile-tracking systems? And anti-missile-missile-launch systems? Did they fail too?

Oh yes, they failed.

In England everything switched itself off In Russia things were different. The Secret Government hadn’t troubled with Russia. Russia had so many clapped-out old systems that Russia would collapse without ‘help’.

Unfortunately, and evidently unforeseen, the sudden loss of power in Russia had the same effect upon some of the Russian nuclear arsenal as it had upon the Doveston’s dynamite.

Only five missiles went up. Which was pretty good, considering. The other 13,055 stayed on the ground. But once those five were in the air, that was it. You couldn’t bring them back. And you couldn’t telephone anyone to warn them they were on their way and say that you were very sorry and it had all been an accident and not to take it personally.

The West could do nothing to stop them.

And the West didn’t know they were coming, or where they were coming from.

The West was power dead. A great slice of it was in darkness: Auld Lang Syners halted in mid-flow; people searching around for candles and wondering how badly they could behave before the power came back on; pretty much everyone drunk.

And five nukes on the way.

They fell somewhat haphazardly.

The one that should have hit central London hit Penge. Which I’m told was a very nice place, although I feel disinclined to visit it nowadays.

Another hit Dublin. Which was bloody unfair. Because, come on, who have the Irish ever attacked, apart from the English? Nobody, that’s who.

Paris copped one. But bugger Paris.

The one that made it to America came down in the Grand Canyon. Causing no loss of life and no damage to property. Now was that fair, I ask you?

The last one came down upon Brighton. Brighton! Why Brighton! Why not Switzerland, or Holland, or Belgium. Or Germany?

Two on England and one of these on Brighton. That wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t.

Especially as Bramfield is only ten miles north of Brighton.

But ten miles is ten miles. And there were the South Downs in between.

Ten miles from the blast meant only a bit of minor roasting and a few flattened buildings. Ten miles from the blast was a doddle.

I think we were into our eighth or ninth double when the shock wave hit. I recall Norman saying, ‘What’s that funny noise?’ again. And I recall the way the south wall of the pub began to make its way towards the north wall. And I remember telling Norman that I thought we’d better run again. And I remember that Norman agreed.

We ran and once more we survived.

Few people knew exactly what had really happened. And few were ever likely to find out. No electricity means no TVs or radios or newspapers. It means no information.

No electricity means no petrol either. No petrol means you stay put where you are.

Country communities cut themselves off. There were food riots in London. Revolution is only ever three square meals away. The British government was overthrown. The People took control. But what could the People do? Could the People get the power back on? No, the People could not. How can you mend a broken system if you have no way of finding out which part of it is broken? How can you check an electrical system without electricity?

In the country we were luckier. At least we had something to eat. We could live off the land. Like the shufflers of old had done.

Norman and I crept back to Castle Doveston to view the ruins and see what might be salvaged. We went in the daytime and we went with caution for fear of the chimeras.

But all the chimeras were dead.

Those which had not been vaporized in the blast had come to grief in the security ditches I’d had dug. The ones with spikes at the bottoms. The spikes that had been given a coat of Norman’s invisible paint.

We marvelled at the ruins. Everything had gone. From the ground up. But from the ground down, things were different. The cellars had survived intact. The trophy room was untouched and so were all the storage rooms. Norman brought his convenient keys into play and we opened them up. Food, glorious food. Enough to last us for years. Enough to last us. As long as we didn’t share it around. As long as we could hang on to it for ourselves.

Norman opened up the Doveston’s armoury and broke out the mini-guns.

And that’s where we holed up. For eight long dark years. From then, until now.

Which brings me to the present and to how the writing of this book came about. The Doveston’s biography.

I’d had no intention of ever writing it. What would have been the point now? There were no more books and no more bookshops. People didn’t read books any more. Books were for burning. Books were fuel.

It was in the early springtime of this year, 2008, that the man came to visit us. He was alone and unarmed and we let him through our barricades.

The man said that his name was Mr Cradbury and that he was employed by a London publishing house. Things were changing in the big metropolis, he told us. The power was back on there and nearly all the time. There was TV too, but only black and white and only showing public-service broadcasts.

A new government had been installed after the revolution and it was slowly getting things back together. A little at a time. This new government would not be making the same mistakes that the old one had made. We would not be seeing too much in the way of technology. It had brought back conscription and many young men had now joined up with the People’s Cavalry.

Things were changing. There was a new world order.

Norman and I listened to what Mr Cradbury had to say. And then I asked Norman whether he thought that Mr Cradbury would taste better fried than boiled.

‘Definitely fried,’ said Norman.

Mr Cradbury became agitated. He had travelled all the way from London to meet us, he said. He had a proposition he wished to put to me.

‘Where have you hidden your horse?’ Norman asked.

Mr Cradbury wasn’t keen to tell us. He said that he had not even known whether we were alive or dead, or indeed whether, if we were alive, we’d still be living here. But he’d come, all the same, braving the robbers and brigands and highwaymen, because what he had to say to me was important and so could we please not cook him and eat him?

‘We can search for his horse,’ said Norman. ‘I’ll get the fire started.’

Mr Cradbury fainted.

Once revived, Mr Cradbury had a great deal more to say. His publishing house, he said, had been asked by the new ministry of culture to publish a book. It would be the first book to be published this century. It was to inspire the young. It was very very important and only I could write this book. Only I had all the necessary information in my head. Only Iknew the whole truth. And, if I would take on this task, I would be most handsomely rewarded.

‘Go on then,’ I said. ‘What is this book that you want me to write?’

‘The biography of the Doveston,’ said Mr Cradbury.

Mr Cradbury made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.