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stretched, letting out an involuntary groan that echoed around the shelter. She crouched down, startled. No reaction from anywhere; no sudden burst of activity from the shady corners or behind the shelving units fixed along the walls.
    There was food here. She could smell it beneath the odor of old dampness and forgotten corners, and she went searching. Starting at the end of the tunnel farthest from where she had entered, Jazz began looking through the stacked shelves. She was immediately struck by the huge variety of goods down here. This was more than just a hideaway, it was a store, and many of the items she found were distinctly out of place. One shelf was piled with hundreds of CDs, ranging from Mozart to Metallica. The next shelf down held boxes of plant seeds still in their packets, and below that were piles of random-sized picture frames, all of them lacking pictures.
A family that never existed,
Jazz thought, and the idea chilled her more than it should.
    Between the shelving stacks, on the floor, were small cardboard boxes. Rat traps. She had no wish to look inside to see what had been caught.
    On the next stack were models of fantasy figures still in their boxes, empty sweets tins filled with one-penny pieces, a shelf of sex toys of varying shapes and sizes, tourist guides to London and beyond, stacks of watches still in their boxes, a variety of cacti, flat-packed furniture, jewelry, books, bedding, bumper stickers, children’s cuddly toys, dining sets, garden gnomes, empty wallets and purses, empty rucksacks…
    Peeking out from behind the units were old wartime posters, some of them unreadable but a few still quite clear. It felt peculiar, reading these exhortations to a lost generation that had feared losing itself. One in particular struck her:
             
    Keep Mum,
    She’s not so Dumb!
             
    Across the print a newer message was scrawled in marker pen:
    Make them go away!
    The tone behind that desperate plea was more disturbing than the age of the poster it was written on. It chilled her but at the same time made her realize how much her life had changed. Up until recently, things had been controlled and overseen. But now she was…
    Free?
she thought.
No. No fucking way. I’m more trapped by Mum’s murder than I ever was before.
    Fighting back tears—Mum would want her to look after herself, not stand here crying—Jazz moved on, and on, and eventually she found a series of shelving units with lockable doors. No doors were locked, but they were all closed, and when she opened the first one her stomach gave an audible rumble of pleasure.
    She plucked out a pack of bourbon cream biscuits and ripped it open. They were soft and probably well past their use-by date, but the first one tasted exquisite. She had no way of telling the time, but she felt that she had been down here for a long time. Even if she’d had a watch, it wouldn’t have done her any good; she could never wear one, because they always broke when she put them on. Her mother suspected the radiation from dental X-rays, though whether this was paranoia or a joke, Jazz had never been sure. Either way, she ignored it as absurd.
    Whatever the hour might be, Jazz decided it was lunchtime.
    Several biscuits eaten, she moved on to the next cupboard. There was plenty of tinned food in here but no tin opener, and she did not feel inclined to go searching for one. A box of crackers looked more inviting, and when she opened the last unit she found four fridges, stacked two high and all working. Inside—butter, cream cheese, salads, and milk.
    She closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of fresh food, and something moved behind her.
    Jazz fell to her knees and clicked off her torch. She was still bathed in stark light, and for a moment she thought she was pinned within the beam of someone else’s torch. Then she remembered the fridge lights, and she slammed the doors closed.
    That had definitely been a movement. An echo,