They were beginning to wonder if, after all, they would have to find a small farm they could run by themselves, when they met the Ramsays.

They had bypassed Leicester and Burton and were working their way across country south of Uttoxeter, heading for the more open lands of the Welsh border. The going had been rough this particular day with many diversions and back-trackings because of fissures, and when in the evening they saw a likely looking field with a stream and a copse that promised firewood, they were glad to stop. A horse-caravan was there already and as usual Philip rode up to it a little ahead of the wagon to make sure that the people were friendly.

A man was building a camp-fire near the caravan, and as Philip approached a woman and a small boy disappeared into the caravan with the signs of caution which Philip had learned to recognize. The man, who was about his own age, watched him warily but after the habitual tentative exchange of greetings apparently decided he was not dangerous. Very soon the wagon was parked beside the caravan, the women and children were making friends and Philip was helping the man to get the fire going.

They introduced themselves as Jack and Sue Ramsay and their eight-year-old son Clive. They had lived in Uttoxeter, which was completely destroyed, they said. After the earthquake, they had fled by car, but had only gone a few kilometres when it broke a half-shaft. They had been determined to remain mobile, and all petrol would have vanished within a few days; so they had, like Philip's group, salvaged a horse and cart. Only more ambitiously and ingeniously they had then hunted for an abandoned caravan trailer which they had managed to roll on to the flat top of the cart, jack up to remove its wheels, lower on to the cart and lash in place to make a very serviceable horse-caravan.

'Only snag is, it's a bit longer than the cart-top,' Jack said. 'So the driver has to ride the horse. Ever tried that, between shafts? But we manage.'

'It's a marvellous job,' Betty said. 'Much better than our covered wagon thing.'

They cooked a communal meal of rabbit-and-vegetable casserole. Philip had shot the rabbits that morning and although they were a brace of big ones they did not supply much meat for eight people. But to the Ramsays any meat was a luxury; they had no gun, and admitted they had not yet mastered the art of snaring. They had caught the occasional chicken but by now almost all stray poultry had either been killed by hungry refugees or rounded up and jealously guarded by static families or communities.

'How did you live through the Madness?' Philip asked.

'Oh, God, don't ask. We found a good solid barn and turned it into a ruddy fortress. Every time I went out for vegetables, I wondered if I'd make it back.' He shuddered. 'I had to kill two of them. I carried a bottle of ammonia in my pocket, to chuck in their eyes and an axe to finish ' em off. Thank Christ that's over – poor bastards. They were just the same as the rest of us. Only unlucky.'

They were all silent for a moment, remembering. Then Sue said, unexpectedly: 'I wish we could say it's over.'

'Oh, it's not too bad now,' Philip said. 'Since the raid that drove us out, we've covered a good hundred kilometres and we've met no more actual violence. We were shot at in Market Harborough but only to warn us off, I think. Compared with the Madness, that's nothing.'

'Then if you don't want to see more violence, you'd better do what we're doing in the morning – get out of here. As far as you can from this area.'

'Why? What's happening?'

Sue's next remark was even more unexpected. 'Are you witches?'

'No, we're not,' Philip told her. 'But we're not against them either. And we think the witch-hunt's barbaric'

'Good. Because we are witches… Ever heard of the Crane Mob?' 'Don't think so. Who are they?'

'A gang of organized witch-hunters. Witch-killers. Their base is about fifteen kilometres east of here, a big old manor house. Somebody's keeping them in petrol. There are six of them, all with motor-bikes and guns. Sometimes they bring a van with them, to take away any useful loot when they've finished… They had been working east and south, pouncing on witch families and wiping them out. But in the last day or two we've heard they're raiding this way. So we're moving.'

'Point is, we're known around here,' Jack said. 'We ran a coven in Uttoxeter before the trouble, and everyone knows our faces. On top of which, that caravan's pretty well unique – recognizable from kilometres away. And yesterday a friend tipped us off we're on the Crane Mob's list. We haven't a gun, so we'd be sitting ducks. We're leaving at first light, travelling west. Out of the Mob's territory. And if I were you, I'd do the same. Our site may be known and the Mob isn't fussy. They might knock you off just in case you were friends of ours.'

Betty murmured in Philip's ear: 'Let's join forces.'

'Good idea,' Philip, said. 'Look, Jack – we're heading west, too. And we have got guns – three rifles, a four-ten shotgun and two pistols. And a spare horse, as outrider. Why don't we stick together? We'd be stronger…" He grinned. 'The kids'd be company for each other, too.'

Sue's face lit up. 'Not to mention the grown-ups and the horses. How about it, Jack?'

'I feel better already,' Jack said.

They had worked very carefully on the listening-holes. Wally's bedroom (which was also, like it or not, Kathy's) and Beaver's (Doreen's) were immediately above the big sitting-room where the men always gathered in the evening. Loosening a floorboard in each, which could be hidden by rugs, was not difficult and since the sitting-room ceiling was richly moulded, the little holes they cut in the plaster under the loosened boards were practically invisible even if you knew where to look.

Doreen and Kathy had made the listening-holes while the men were out on raids. They went raiding two or three times a week and to begin with they had always taken one of the 'wives', as they called them, locked in the van as a hostage for the good behaviour of the five left behind -and had also taken all the spare firearms and ammunition (of which they seemed to have plenty) stored in the cab of the van. But after the first week, though the weapons still remained in the van, Wally decided that the hostage was an unnecessary encumbrance. The girls had no transport and nowhere to run, and the locals, well enough aware of the conditional nature of their immunity, would have been quick to inform on the direction the girls had taken if they did try to run.

Besides, Doreen's policy of apparent submission was working. Though it was horribly difficult, the other girls had seen the sense of it and had pinned their hopes on Doreen's leadership. Doll-like Helen, as Doreen had foreseen, was unable to control her sporadic outbursts of temper but ironically they had merely resulted in the other men teasing Jake about being hen-pecked. Thirteen-year-old Muriel had an unexpected reprieve – for Fatso proved to be impotent. Advised by Doreen, she was careful to give no hint of this to the other men while the other girls were equally careful to give no sign that she had told them. Fatso, terrified of ridicule, was grateful for her silence and anxious not to provoke her into breaking it; so she did not manage too badly. Gina and Miriam had not been virgins, which made their ordeal a little less traumatic; Gina, too, was helped by her bovine resilience, and Miriam by the dedicated hatred which she shared with Doreen and Kathy.

They lulled the men further by efficient housekeeping, to which the Mob were not accustomed; and Gina and Helen were excellent cooks.

Eavesdropping on the Mob's plans, once the listening-holes were made, was simplicity itself. When Wally wanted to brief his men on the next day's operation, he dismissed the girls from the sitting-room. It was then natural and unsuspicious for Doreen or Kathy or both to go to their bedrooms. They preferred to have two listeners; it made for more accurate and comprehensive reporting.