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perhaps, of something farther away, but definitely not dripping water. More ghosts? She imagined an endless procession of people fleeing endless bombing, but the things she had found down here were at odds with that image. Ghosts did not eat biscuits, drink milk, or listen to Metallica.
    Jazz scanned the shelter by the poor light of the hanging bulbs.
    Keep your wits about you,
her mother had once said.
That’s the best weapon you can have.
             
    “See?” she said. “Richard Kimble’s got his wits. Evades capture. Runs. And he’s saving himself too.”
    “
The Fugitive
is just a film, Mum,” Jazz said. She was sitting on the sofa with her legs tucked up beneath her, eating strawberry ice cream straight from the tub. Her mum’s whiskey tumbler was almost empty again, but although her eyes glittered and her face was flushed, her words were as clear and concise as ever.
    “But you can learn a
lot
from a film. Why shouldn’t you learn from fiction? It’s a vast array of ideas, and you can take what you need from that. Look at him. You can see the planning in every movement of his eyes, everything he does. He knows not to stop running. He knows to lose himself and how to find himself again after that.”
    “But he’s just an actor, Mum. Not flesh and blood.”
    “Flesh and blood?” her mother said, and she froze for a few seconds, her eyes seeing something much farther away.
    “Mum?”
    “Flesh and blood,” she repeated, words quieter than ever. “Not everything real is flesh and blood, Jazz. Not everything at all.”
             
    Those ghosts were not real,
Jazz thought, running low and fast toward the other end of the shelter. She wanted to get as far from the spiral staircase as possible, and she remembered seeing some cupboards and storage units piled haphazardly against the end wall. Perhaps there she would find cover from whatever was coming.
    She could hear the footsteps now, a single set descending with confidence.
    Whoever it is, they’re not expecting anyone to be down here.
It gave her a moment’s hope, but still she was terrified.
    She almost fumbled the torch and held her breath, looping her index finger through the handle. If she lost that, she really would be in trouble.
    If whoever came down was threatening, she could blind them with light, then run for the stairs. It wasn’t so far to the surface. A hundred feet, maybe? A bit less, a bit more?
    She reached the end of the shelter, paused, and heard those footsteps still descending. She should have been counting steps, she knew. Should have been trying to work out how long she had, how close they were, how fast they were descending.
    There were a dozen cabinets here, stacked against the crumbling brickwork, and most of them were full with all manner of goods. She started panicking again. She could lie down on one of the mattresses and pull a blanket across her, but how effective would that be? She had to hide, and now she was starting to wish she’d just gone to wait at the entrance tunnel, ready to clout the visitor over the head with the torch and run for her life.
    She found a cupboard that was only half full, coats and jackets piled flat on its floor. She could fit in there.
    The footsteps echoed so loudly that she was sure they were right behind her.
    She glanced back, stepped into the cupboard, pulled the metal doors shut behind her, left an inch gap through which to see, and the person stepped into view.
    He paused for a while at the end of the entrance tunnel, looking around the shelter, nose raised.
    He knows I’m here. Oh fuck, he knows I’m here. He can smell me, see me, sense me!
    The man was tall, easily six feet, and stood proud and straight. She thought he was older than his appearance suggested. He had long black hair that was tied in a loose ponytail and wore a trench coat that had seen better days. Its material was ripped in several places, and there seemed to be stains beneath both large pockets, as