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by three years of honing. The once angular wooden handle had worn smooth to abide in Gordon’s right palm. With the tin’s lid prised back, the stink of the city was banished for a moment by the oily reek of fish. Saliva flooded his mouth making the glands in his throat sting and ache. His stomach worked against itself, groaning. He spiked a lump of pink flesh, inspected it briefly and popped it into his mouth.
    He chewed for a long time before swallowing.
    There was no opportunity for a second bite; a noise in the distance brought him to his feet. Nearby, there was an impact hole in the wall, almost perfectly round but for the jagged edges of bricks. There was damage like this all over London, across every city he’d passed through, blasts and bullet holes from the early days of conflict.
    He ducked through into a small back garden full of junk; everything of use or value stripped from it long ago. He placed his pack in a cracked bathtub and rested the tin of salmon on top before crouching and poking his head back through the hole.
    The noise was closer now. The clatter of six or seven horses approaching along Lillie Road. He guessed he’d have about a minute to find cover. Praying it was a routine patrol and not a dog squad, he ducked back through the hole, grabbed his food and pack and, stumbling over the tangle of scrap, scrambled towards the back of the house.
    The door was shut but not locked. He yanked it open and assessed his options. The tin of salmon was precious but the smell of it was like a loudhailer announcing a human presence. Out here where the population was sparse, the Ward would stop and question anyone they saw, just so they’d have something to report at the end of the patrol. Nearer the centre it was busy and they ignored you, saving their energy for dawn searches, breaking up fights over food and lynching petty criminals. There wasn’t time to hide the fish and even if he ate it in a hurry, the smell would linger. He grabbed the tin and crept into the house.
    Please, let there be some stairs.
    Passing through two rooms he found the front hallway and, leading up from it, intact stairs.
    Thank you.
    Most properties had been raided for wood and a decent staircase could keep a family warm for a week of winter. Two weeks if they used it carefully. These stairs were still carpeted. Three at a time, he ascended.
    On the first landing there were two rooms. He passed the damp, mildewed bathroom, its walls dark with colonies of rot. Beyond was what might once have been a bedroom. It was empty now and its windows were gone but it looked out over the rubbish tip in the back garden. If he kept still and hung back, he’d see the Wardsmen pass by on the other side of the wall. Anticipating he might have to run or hide again, he put his tin of food down and pulled his rucksack on. As he completed the manoeuvre and bent to pick up his precious salmon, he felt something hard dig into his ribs.
    He froze.
    Out of the corner of his eye he saw a woman. Pale-faced, dark haired. That was all he could glean before the most important detail took his attention: a double barrelled shotgun pulled tight into her shoulder. She looked like she knew how to use it.
    Outside the clopping of steel-shod hooves approached.
    “I don’t want any trouble,” he whispered. “That’s the Ward outside. I only wanted to hide.”
    The woman glanced through the window and ducked slightly. She backed away still pointing the gun at him; at his head now. She motioned with it for him to follow her.
    “You won’t shoot me. It’ll only bring them to your door.”
    She smiled without a trace of humour.
    “And I’ll tell them I shot a thief. Saved them the trouble.”
    Gordon raised his hands. It was a hundred to one that the gun was even loaded but he couldn’t take the risk. Even if she fired and missed, the whole troop of Wardsmen would be off their mounts and through the door in seconds. She probably wouldn’t miss with the second