Other kids were playing different games: the younger ones chasing each other around; some of the girls had invented their own elaborate games that involved hopping and skipping, jumping, clapping, singing and counting. Most kids, though, just lounged around on whatever they could find to sit on – broken chairs, logs, bits of rubbish – and chatted to each other, just like the bored contestants on I’m a Celebrity … Get Me Out of Here. Of course they couldn’t talk about what they’d watched on TV last night, or a piece of music they’d heard, or something they’d seen on YouTube, the latest video game, the premier league … It was all gossip. Who’d said what to who and what they’d said back at them, who they liked, who they didn’t like.

That was another reason why Shadowman preferred to keep himself to himself. So he didn’t have to talk to anyone. He kept on the move, strolling around the camp, settling now and then by one of the fires that they kept burning day and night, letting the smoke wash over him. He’d learnt early on that the grown-ups could smell kids, so he did all he could to mask his own scent. It also hid his smell from other kids. Smoke was the best deodorant around. It got into your clothes, your hair, your skin, and drowned out all the unmentionable smells that unwashed bodies accumulate. He’d rubbed most of the soot from his skin and now just looked like one more grubby boy among a camp full of grubby boys.

A group of kids was making music – banging boxes, clapping, rapping – one had a battered guitar with three strings. Occasionally one of them would break away and do a little dance of some sort, showing off, trying to outdo the others.

Nearby two boys were fighting, a small crowd gathered round them. They were really battering each other and the onlookers were laughing. Shadowman smiled. All of this served one purpose. To take their minds off the thing they all thought about all the time. Food. Where was it going to come from, what was it going to be, how much was there going to be?

There never was enough, of course. And it was never very nice. A lot of it would be stale or rancid.

Half the kids from the camp were out on the streets still, breaking into houses and shops to see what they could find. There was always excitement in the camp when these groups returned, like fishermen back from the sea or hunters back from the wild. Would they bring back a mammoth today, or just a couple of rats?

Another reason why Shadowman liked to work alone. He could find his own food and look after himself, not have to worry about any other mouths to feed, not sharing or waiting his turn, hanging back to see what crumbs he could pick up after the bigger, tougher kids had had their fill.

He saw one of the kids he’d made friends with, a little Irish bruiser called Paddy. He was sitting alone playing with some broken action figures. Shadowman sat down next to him and Paddy said hello.

‘What are those guys?’ Shadowman asked, nodding at the little men.

‘They’re Halo figures. I found them in a comic shop months ago. I could really do with some new ones.’

‘I used to love playing Halo,’ said Shadowman. ‘My mum used to shout at me all the time. Stop playing that bloody game …’

‘Yeah,’ said Paddy. ‘Me too.’

‘My favourite was Fable, though.’

‘Never played that.’

‘It was good. Good story. Good acting.’

‘I just like games where you blow things up and shoot people.’

‘Yeah.’

There was a commotion on the edge of the camp. Someone was coming in. Shadowman looked over to see John and Carl striding on to the parade ground carrying boxes wrapped in plastic. Big grins on their faces. Behind them came several other lads also carrying boxes.

John and Carl were the two guys in charge here. John was the overall boss. As far as Shadowman was concerned, he was a skinny, wiry, ugly, gap-toothed, mean, shaven-headed little bastard. His character was a lethal mix of bone-stupid and streetwise smarts, and he was prone to terrible acts of random violence. The other kids were scared of him and he used that fear to keep some sort of control in the camp. There was a kind of screwy order and the kids seemed happy to have him boss them around. He made them feel safe.

Carl was his deputy. Cleverer and altogether nicer, he dressed a bit like a pirate, with a bandanna permanently tied round his head, and had no ambition to be number one. He seemed to be the only person who could stop John from getting out of order. Shadowman reckoned that John was seriously unhinged and probably dangerous. If the disaster hadn’t happened, he would have been locked up somewhere. But now, in this upside-down new world, psychos like John were leaders and generals.

As the foraging party got nearer, Shadowman saw that the boxes they were carrying contained not food but cans of beer and cider. John started shouting triumphantly about it.

‘Look what your Uncle Johnny has got for you useless tossers. Don’t say I don’t look after you. There’s going to be a big party in the old town tonight and there ain’t no adults gonna stop us! No mums, no coppers, no sleep till morning.’

Paddy jumped up and ran over to him.

‘Give us one!’ he shouted happily, and John casually kicked him in the balls, sending him sprawling across the gravel, spilling his action figures everywhere. John walked on, laughing, and crushed one of the little men under his heavy boot.

‘Later,’ he said. ‘And you can wait your turn, you Irish loser. We’re gonna have a riot and we’re gonna do it properly. I ain’t had nothing to drink in days.’

He went to his own shack and dumped his box on the ground. The other kids piled theirs around it.

‘Listen up, goons and goonettes,’ John shouted, jumping up on the boxes. ‘I want a really big fire, I want some music and I want some grub. Get on it. Sort me out. And when I’m happy you can all have a drink. Well, not all of you, only the ones that make me happy.’

He jumped down, laughing, and tore his box open to get at a can, which he popped open and clamped to his mouth. As he glugged away, he caught Shadowman’s eye.

‘What you looking at?’

‘Nothing.’

Shadowman dropped his gaze, embarrassed that John had spotted him. His cloak of invisibility had failed.

‘Come here.’

Shadowman had no option but to go over to John who glared at him over his beer can, looking right into Shadowman and making him feel naked and foolish.

‘I seen you around. I ain’t sure I like you.’

Shadowman shrugged. Decided to try to change the subject.

‘Where’d you get the beer?’

‘What’s it to you?’

‘Just interested.’

‘Yeah – interested. You’re always interested, ain’t you? Listening in, poking your nose everywhere. Interested.’

John took a sudden swing at Shadowman, lashing out with his left hand. Shadowman instinctively ducked and backed away. John grinned.

‘You’re fast, ain’t you?’

‘Fast enough.’

John bent down and for a moment Shadowman wasn’t sure what he was going to do. But he simply grabbed another beer can and chucked it at Shadowman, who caught it neatly.

‘Cheers,’ said John.

‘Thanks,’ said Shadowman. ‘What’s the catch?’

‘No catch. We found this lot in a pub cellar, seeing as you asked. It was rammed full of booze. Which was lucky, as Carl’s little pillaging expedition earlier got banjaxed. I’m sending another gang back to get some more. Drink up.’

Shadowman opened his can and put it to his lips. As he did so, John whipped out a knife and held the point to Shadowman’s throat.

‘Dropped your guard, there, Snoopy,’ he said, and then pressed his face very close to Shadowman’s, keeping the knife hard to his skin and causing a small trickle of blood to run down his neck.

‘I’m keeping my eye on you,’ he said.

‘OK,’ Shadowman gulped, trying to keep his tone neutral.