One volcano was on an island called Coguana des Tyq in the South Atlantic Ocean, part of the same group of islands to which Tristan da Cunha, which had been devastated by a volcanic eruption twenty years before, belonged. The seismic readings and earthquakes resulting from the Coguana des Tyq activity made it the worst volcanic eruption of the twentieth century. A second volcano, Mount St Helens in washington State, which had erupted previously in 1980, had now begun to erupt again, and the reason was being blamed on Coguana des Tyq. The prophets were having a field day, and dusty scrolls portending that two volcanoes simultaneously erupting signalled the end of the world were being pulled from a million doom-mongers’ closets. For once, for many people, there was a damn sight more than a mere grain of truth in their prophesies. In a strange way, I found it comforting to remember that in a world full of sick people lusting for destruction, Mother Nature could rear her head in any way she liked, at any time she liked, and create acts of havoc that could make all human acts of destruction pale into insignificance.

The volcano in Fifeshire’s mouth glowed a vivid red at the tip, and then the red faded away, leaving the tip a silvery grey colour; he opened his mouth and shot a plume of smoke out into the room.

The only other person in Fifeshire’s office, apart from myself and Fifeshire, was Sir Isaac Quoit. It was eleven o’clock Saturday morning, 2 January. In two days’ time, provided that England was still standing, Quoit would be permitted to come out of hiding. In spite of that, he didn’t look particularly cheerful, and still continued to eye me with a mixture of fear and contempt. It was Fifeshire who spoke first.

‘Seventy-two fuel bundles were shipped from Hamburg to Shoreham in Sussex on a small freighter, the Jan Marie, on 28 December, concealed in a consignment of kitchen equipment. The Jan Marie is at sea again at the moment, so the crew have not yet been questioned, but it is unlikely they would know much about what happened to their cargo once it went ashore. The consignment cleared UK customs on 30 December, and was in the forwarding agents’ warehouse at Shoreham awaiting delivery to the customer – an East London discount retailing group. On the night of 31 December, the warehouse was broken into, and four crates were stolen. According to a check on the inventory list, these four crates contained spare elements for microwave oven units – a clever description, because, to someone unfamiliar, as most people are, with the inside of microwave ovens, they could easily be forgiven for thinking that’s what the bundles were. Seventy-two bundles is two day’s fresh fuel for one reactor, or one day’s fresh fuel for two. Is that not right, Isaac?’

Quoit nodded.