Nearly an hour later, well armed and well fed, back to something approaching an even keel, he climbed down the ladder and returned to his spyhole to check whether the coast was clear.

He’d made the decision to move on. Finding the stash had been a sign. He’d been given the tools to get back to civilization.

It was still quiet outside. He laced his boots up tightly, stuck a knife in his belt, loaded the crossbow and left the apartment, carefully closing the door behind him and wedging it shut again. If there were any problems, he could come back here.

He started down the stairs, treading softly, staying alert and focused.

He made it down without incident and peered out into the street.

It was deserted. All he had to do was start walking …

He paused. For a moment gripped by doubt. His confidence had been jolted yesterday. For months he’d been on top of things, and then … In a few short hours it had all fallen apart. He’d realized just how vulnerable he was.

He took some deep breaths. Told himself that he could do it. Told himself he was going to get back to safety. They’d been fools, him and Jester. Wandering off for a picnic in a minefield. He knew it wasn’t going to be easy getting back to central London. These outlying areas were wilder than he’d ever imagined. David and the other kids like him in the large settlements might have been pompous pricks, self-important little Hitlers, but at least they’d cleaned up the streets and made them relatively safe. This was war around here.

Come on … Just do it …

He was about to step out of the doorway when some sixth sense told him to wait. Maybe his ears had picked up a tiny sound, maybe his keen eyes had spotted a movement, maybe there was a new smell of rot in the air, but whatever it was he was suddenly tingling all over and his muscles locked in place.

Don’t move. Wait. Be careful.

He shrank back behind the security desk in the reception area, and looked out into the street.

They were starting to appear. Strangers. Pouring out of the stadium, like the crowd after a match. At their head was St George in his grubby vest, then came his associates, the gang of four – Bluetooth, the One-Armed Bandit, Man U and Mr Ordinary, the man with no name.

Behind them …

An army.

That’s what it looked like. An army of strangers, not exactly marching in step, more a shambling mob, but moving with a purpose nevertheless. The fire must have got so bad they’d been forced from their hiding-place into the open, the bright sun.

So many of them. It took ages for them all to pass. Shadowman held back. Waiting for his moment.

Finally the last few stragglers shuffled past and he got ready to head off in the opposite direction.

Except …

What were they doing? Where were they going? He remembered his revelation of last night, about how dangerous the strangers would be if they properly united. If they could join others like themselves, band together into larger and larger gangs, be a real army.

Until last night such a thought would never have entered his mind. Now, though, he was seeing something horribly new and dangerous. He had to follow them. He told himself that he was only making sure that he knew where they were, so that he could avoid them, but he knew it was something more than that.

Know your enemy.

And they were the enemy. A real threat. This organized rabble. This terrifying …

What?

What could he call them?

He’d always liked to name things. If you put a label on something, it was yours – you owned it. That was why he was so frustrated at not to be able to think of a proper name for the fourth stranger in St George’s little gang of lieutenants.

He’d spent his life following, observing, naming … Now he could put his skills to good use. He sneaked out into the road and set off after them. The secret survival hoard had been a sign. But it was a sign that he had misread. He’d been given what he needed, not to go back to the palace, but to survive on the streets here and keep an eye on the strangers.

There was only one thing. If he was going to spy on this army of the sick, he’d need to give them a name.

It would come to him.

54

DogNut, Courtney, Marco, Felix and Finn were in the library where Chris Marker and his assistants had set up camp. Chris was sitting at one end of a long table with a huge leather-bound volume open in front of him, writing carefully by hand on the blank creamy-white pages. Assistants sat on either side of him, all writing away in similar ledgers. There was a peaceful air of quiet study. The assistants were listening intently to DogNut, looking up now and then, before tilting their noses back to their work.

They’d been here all day, Dog Nut’s team, taking it in turns to tell their stories, and now it was his turn. He was the last to go and not enjoying it. He’d been telling them everything he could remember about what had happened since his mum and dad died and he’d had to face up to the new reality of a disease-ruined world. He had told how he’d left his council block and joined Jordan Hordern’s crew. How they’d fought their way into the Imperial War Museum, and how they’d lived there until they’d been forced to leave by the fire.

As he talked, the sun slowly went down and one of Chris’s assistants lit a row of candles that had been placed down the middle of the table. They gave a comforting, mellow glow. Courtney felt like she was in some medieval film, or the sort of programme you used to get on the BBC about monks and things.

DogNut paused, scratched his stubbly head. Not sure how to carry on. His voice was hoarse. He was tired of talking. The day had seemed to go on forever. He couldn’t believe that he had delayed going back to the Tower for this. He’d been so keen to get here and now the thought of spending just one more night was torture. He looked out of the window. Getting darker all the time.

Whatever happened he was leaving first thing in the morning.

‘Go on,’ said Chris, pen hovering over the page.

‘Look, I ain’t any good at this,’ said DogNut. ‘I don’t know what’s important. I don’t really know how to tell stories, only jokes.’

‘You’re doing fine,’ said Chris Marker. ‘Don’t stop now. Let me worry about how to make it into a story.’

‘How you gonna do that, though? It’s just, like, stuff that happened.’

‘There are stories everywhere; you just have to untangle them.’

‘You reckon?’

‘Yeah. So go on then.’

DogNut went on. He told the story of how he and his friends had found Ed fighting for his life at Lambeth Bridge. How they’d got split up from everyone else and ended up drifting down the river on the tour boat. He told about their arrival at the Tower, and then it had been left to him to tell all that happened in the last year. How Jordan Hordern had organized them into military units. How they’d made the Tower secure and protected it. How they grew food. The fights they’d had. The things they’d found. The friends they’d lost.

Courtney and the others chipped in now and then, adding their own memories, filling in the gaps for him and correcting some of his mistakes. He wasn’t very good at telling it clearly. He kept stopping and starting and going off on side stories and forgetting what he was talking about, but Chris Marker remained patient, occasionally asking him to clarify something or repeat it so that he was sure he understood correctly.

And then finally DogNut came to the story of their journey here. Of the boat trip back up the river, of meeting Nicola and her kids at the Houses of Parliament, of Bozo and the hunters. He laughed about their short stay at the palace and outwitting David. He didn’t laugh when he came to the part about the Collector. He mumbled and muttered and became very vague when he told about leaving Olivia behind. Courtney saw he was having difficulties and took over, quickly filling in the last part – arriving at the museum and going back with Paul and Robbie and the others to kill the Collector.