Then he was aware of a fresh light and he looked up. Someone was shining a torch down at him.

‘Let me in!’

He heard voices, but couldn’t tell what they were saying. Filled with a mad fury he slammed an approaching father against the glass, and then kicked another in the guts. Jabbing left and right with his elbows he backed away from the windows, all the while yelling for help. He broke free of the huddle around him and was on the move again, darting madly to avoid a larger group of grown-ups who were trying to close in on him. The torch beam zigzagged across the road, like a spotlight in a prison-escape movie.

What were they doing up there? Were they going to help him or not?

‘Please! Help me!’ he wailed, his voice thin and weedy like a baby’s. He tore himself out of the grip of a very determined father and ran back towards the shop. He couldn’t get there, though. The strangers were going berserk. Half were attacking him, half seemed to be trying to break into the shop. The father was on him again and Jester managed to hurl him at a group of grown-ups who slammed into the glass. Shouting, screaming, punching and kicking, Jester fought his way back into the open and started running. He was forced to keep switching direction or risk being penned in by the milling grown-ups, and was soon going round in circles. Exhaustion was taking hold. His body was running on its last reserves. He had used all his energy getting to the shop and shouting for help. He couldn’t believe that the kids inside were just going to watch him die out here.

And then the faces of the strangers around him were suddenly lit red and orange, like spectators at a firework display. A flaming torch was sailing through the night sky, bright against the clouds. It landed with an explosion of sparks, scattering the strangers. Jester heard kids shouting a war cry.

He clamped his hand to his mouth to stop himself from crying.

It looked like he was going to be rescued.

Maybe there was a God after all.

50

Shadowman was in some kind of tunnel. At one end was darkness, the other opened out into what he thought might be a large enclosed space. The four strangers from the building site hadn’t killed him. They’d brought him here and dumped him in the tunnel. He wasn’t sure exactly where here was, though, because it was too dark to see anything properly and he’d blacked out before they’d arrived. Now he was sitting propped up with his back against the wall trying to get his bearings. He wasn’t alone. There were several other kids with him. All dead except for one girl, and she was barely alive. Occasionally she groaned and moved slightly, but when Shadowman had tried to speak to her she hadn’t replied.

There were noises from the depths of the tunnel and Shadowman was aware of more than one adult wandering around, coming and going in the darkness. The ones who had brought him here were keeping close. Standing watch over him. He wasn’t sure if it was to stop him from escaping or to stop the others from grabbing him. Just what they were keeping him alive for he had no idea. He was trying not to think ahead, trying not to imagine all the things that might be done to him. For now he was alive and feeling gradually more normal. His head was clearing and he didn’t feel so sick and woozy. He was able to stay awake for much longer periods, though he still felt very tired. Even without the blow to his head he supposed he’d feel tired, though. It was the middle of the night, after all. What time was it? No idea. His watch was in his pack and his pack was gone.

His four strangers lurked silently in the gloom. Waiting for something. He had made up nicknames for them. It made them somehow less threatening. The one with the earpiece he had named Bluetooth. The one in the football shirt was Man U. The half-naked father with the missing limb was the One-Armed Bandit. The fourth member of their group was a rather ordinary-looking father. If you could describe someone as ordinary when their skin was blistered and peeling off, and their hair was falling out. It was just that compared to the other three he had no obvious distinguishing features.

The thing about strangers, grown-ups, mothers and fathers – call them whatever you liked – was they all looked the same after a while. Diseased.

These four seemed quite patient. They squatted down, leaning against the far wall, now and then standing up and going over to peer out of the end of the tunnel. And whenever another stranger came close they all jumped up and went into aggressive mode. Guarding their territory, their trophies.

Otherwise they seemed happy to wait.

Shadowman was happy to wait too, because with every passing second he grew stronger. When the time came to fight and hopefully run, he was determined to be ready.

There was a hiss and snarl from the tunnel mouth and he turned to see what had made the sound – his eyes straining to make out the shapes in the dim light. There seemed to be a father standing there, a black shape against the paler grey of the outside world. He was squat with a massive head and appeared to be wearing baggy shorts. He made a noise that sounded like he was clearing his throat and the four strangers seemed to understand what he wanted. Two of them, Bluetooth and the Bandit, took hold of one of the dead kids by the ankles and dragged him outside. Man U and Mr Ordinary then took hold of the girl who was still alive and pulled her out by her feet in the same way. She moaned and whimpered but didn’t struggle. Then Bluetooth and the Bandit were back and taking hold of Shadowman. He decided not to fight, either. He needed to know where he was and what was going on before he could make any kind of escape plan.

When they dragged him out of the end of the tunnel, it was a moment before he realized where he was. It was so unexpected. In fact he had to close his eyes and open them a couple of times to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating.

It was a football stadium. Overhead was a wide expanse of open sky and all around were ranks of seats. He tried to think which stadium it might be. If he was in north London, it had to be either the Spurs ground or the Arsenal. It was big enough and modern enough to be the new Arsenal stadium and that would make sense as it was the nearest one to King’s Cross.

The father he had seen silhouetted in the tunnel mouth was standing in the centre of the overgrown pitch. The four strangers seemed to be looking after him. Now that Shadowman could make him out clearly he saw that he had an immense, swollen bald head, a pair of wire-framed glasses with no lenses and was wearing a football vest with the cross of St George on it. There were two dead bodies at his feet, half hidden in the long grass, and the girl who was still alive was trying to stand up. Bluetooth went over and knocked her down, then stood patiently by the fat-headed one as if awaiting orders.

Shadowman had never seen this level of organization among grown-ups before. The idea that they might have a leader, that they might work together, was something new to him. Most of the grown-ups had been driven out of the area around Buckingham Palace, so Shadowman hadn’t been able to observe how they behaved, but obviously those that had survived the year since the disease first struck were changing, developing, growing. Unless it was only the cleverer ones that had survived this long. If they started to properly work together they would become truly dangerous. He was appalled, scared, and yet fascinated by what he was seeing.

He noticed that there were more strangers in the stadium seating, as if watching the spectacle that was unfolding on the pitch. Like some sort of gladiatorial games.

Or a human sacrifice.

How many were there?

Shadowman realized he had withdrawn from what was going on. He was watching all this as if it was happening to someone else. He’d always been the type to stand back and observe – now he was spying on his own death.