The hell with it.

The theatre was getting steadily more crowded, with adults, kids, babies, some sullen teenagers There were just so many kids, for now sticking close to their parents, but with plenty of potential for trouble later.

All these people. And all of them would need feeding, and watering, and toilets. Young, old, thin, fat, good, evil, smart, dull. And yet it was the purpose of all human endeavour, as far as he could see, to preserve every last one of them, as if he or she was the last human on the planet.

And they would all, he supposed, want dignity.

Not only that, they had their pets with them: there were a lot of dogs, rather fewer cats, a handful of birds in cages and fish in bowls, even a few rabbits and gerbils and hamsters in cages or shoeboxes. The animals were already making a hell of a row, and much as he approved of the principle of keeping family units together — and pets were part of the family — he could see there was going to be trouble later; animals and humans, generally speaking, did not mix.

All these people. And this was just one refugee station, of perhaps dozens, hundreds being set up, as the city became a leaking balloon, spilling its people across the countryside, the authorities trying desperately to mop up that sad flow in sink holes like this, trying to get some control again.

When what they should really be doing, Ted told himself, was getting the hell out of the way.

There were volunteers from all over, the British Red Cross and the St John Ambulance Brigade and the Salvation Army and the WRVS and the RAF and the Army, even from the local Rotary Club. They were carrying blankets and sheets and camp mattresses and pillows, packets of food, plastic tubs of water, but they looked a little lost about where to put them.

The RAF types had a job-lot of storm lanterns with them, and at that Ted glanced up at the light fittings. Not a flicker; no sound from any PA. No power, then; that was going to be fun later… though he wondered how those pcs were being made to work.

Ted found the family reception point, as the woman on the desk had described it. It was crowded with lost-looking people, some of them injured. But there was no sign that this place had been set up to serve its new purpose. Not so much as a bulletin board with a box of tacks.

He found a ballpoint pen in one pocket, and he scrawled his name and Jack’s on a painted wall. Jane Dundas. We’ll find you.

An anxious-looking young woman begged the pen from him, to add her own message — Mum’s here — and then another after her.

A queue started forming.

Ted turned to Jack. “Nothing but queues,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Don’t suppose I’ll see that pen again.”

“No.”

“So what do you think, lad? This place is a mess. How do you fancy a little work?”

Jack nodded seriously. “I think they need our help.”

“That they do.”

Ted led the way downstairs again.

Back towards the entrance there was even more of a crush to register than before. The lengthening, folded-back queues looked less patient than before, and there seemed to be a large number of wounded and their families being earned straight past and into the theatre.

Ted put down his case and leaned to talk to Jack. “Now then,” he said. “I know I complained at that lady.”

“But you were wrong.”

“Yes, I was wrong. Logging everybody in is one of the most important things that can happen here.”

“Without that, mum can’t find us.”

“That’s right. Are you any use with a computer?”

“What model? What language? I know C++, mark-up—”

“Never mind.” He pointed. “You see the wee girl over there.” It was the teenage runner he’d noticed before, carrying registration slips to a pc. The table where the pc was set up was piled high with unentered slips.

Jack nodded uncertainly.

“Say I sent you. Say you’ll help her with her forms. If she’ll let you type in the stuff, fine. If she just wants you to bring her the forms, well, that’s fine too.”

“All right, Granddad.” The lad looked dubious. Probably he was more doubtful about the prospect of approaching a fourteen-year-old girl, Ted reflected, than getting involved in the greatest evacuation exercise in Britain since wartime. At that, Ted envied him.

“But the first thing you can do is bring her a cup of tea. Or a Coke, or whatever. And the lady on the desk there too.”

“Where will I get the tea?”

“Do I look as if I know? You’ll find it, lad.”

“What about you?”

“I’m going to see the manager.” He bent, painfully, and looked Jack in the face. “But you listen. I’ll be right here, in this theatre. You’ll be able to find me any time you want me.”

“And you can find me too, Granddad.”

He nodded. “I’ll take you up on that. And your mother will be along soon. But for now, we’ve got work to do.”

Ted ruffled the lad’s hair and, taking care not to look back, he turned and limped off to find the manager’s office.

The door of the theatre manager’s office was open; a small, harassed-looking woman was shouting into a phone about how she didn’t have the resources to handle this, not to mention a complete lack of training, and if something wasn’t done about it soon… First bad sign, Ted thought. Should be a line of people at this door, waiting for instructions. This woman isn’t running anything but a phone bill.

“Excuse me,” he said.

She put her hand over her phone and scowled. “Who are you?”

“Ted Dundas.” He flashed his old, now blood-stained warrant card.

“Retired,” she said wearily.

“But not deactivated.”

“Mr Dundas—”

“Ted.”

“I think I have all the help I can handle right now.”

“You do?” Ted turned, as if to go. “That’s good. You’ll need it. Because I was wondering what percentage of the population of Edinburgh you were thinking of lodging in this establishment. And for how long.”

“What?”

“You’ve got people streaming in. I don’t see too many streaming out.” He studied her. “You haven’t been trained for this, have you?”

Her mouth turned to a thin line. She was near the edge, he realized. She was just the manager of a small provincial theatre, a place that was a one-line backup on some local authority contingency plan that had never been expected to come to pass. And now, this. And everybody stretched thin, nobody around to help. Except an old arse like me.

Tact, Ted. Never your strong suit.

“Mr Dundas, I’m in charge here.”

“I know you are.” He held up his hands. “But I can see you don’t have what you need. No training. No emergency box. No call-out list. It’s all just been dumped on you.”

She hesitated.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, it has.”

He nodded. “You don’t need to keep everybody here, to begin with. Billet them. Find volunteers here, with their cars, waiting to take people away, to put them up in their homes. It just takes a little organization. Maybe I could help with that.”

“But the registration—”

“You can register them going out as easy as coming in. Maybe there will be some who won’t have to pass through the centre, physically, at all.”

“We won’t have enough volunteers. Hosts.”

“Get some more.” He pointed to her mobile phone. “Use that. Find a ham radio operator. Start tapping into the communication networks that already exist. Are there media people here?”

“Media?”

The telly. They are going to be here, and in your face. Use them. Find somebody to be a media spokesman.”

“Spokesperson.”

“Whatever… If a local radio station is still operating—”

The manager frowned, then scribbled a note.

He ought to speak to whatever copper was in charge here, probably a bronze-level commander. The sooner they could be persuaded to let the mobile and self-reliant pass on and out of here under their own steam, the better.