A quick nod, the slat scrapes closed. I stand there, frowning, remember. None of my business. I make my way back down the main road and see the man. He’s standing not far from where the old Goldhawk pub, was on the same side of the road as me but far enough so I can’t see his features, just a vague shape. It might not even be a man at all, but he’s tall and big so I go with my assumption. He’s wearing a duffel coat with the hood up, which is even more scary than being a man. He’s not doing anything, just looking in my direction and he might have seen me, might not, so I turn on my heel, start to walk briskly without looking back. I strain my ears to check if he’s following, because it’s so quiet these days you can practically hear for miles, but there’s no sound. When I get on the back roads that lead towards Hammersmith I look over my shoulder. He’s not there. I jog then, all the way, holding the paper bag away from me. Danny’s at the front steps with the gun, eyes full moons, brighter when he sees me. I slow down, gasping.

‘What happened?’

‘Nothing,’ I’m panting. ‘I just saw someone by the shops, a man, I think. He didn’t follow me but I ran anyway.’

He lowers the gun. His face looks pale in the grey of morning, drained.

‘Are you nuts, going off like that?’

He’s crying. Guilt shoots through me like cramp. I climb the steps, throwing my arms around him. I shiver when he hugs me and feel his head turn, him raise the gun, just in case we get jumped. This is what we have come to. This is who we have become.

‘Let’s go inside,’ he says.

We take a final look over our shoulders, go up the steps, enter. The passageway is dark as oil. So is the living room, as we have done as the Tsois: boarded up windows and doors. There is lamplight and candlelight, which tends to be nicer than the bulbs. I pull off my hoodie and start looking for pots. Danny stands behind me, sniffling, hands by his side. He comes closer, stops me.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘For snapping at you.’

‘It’s OK,’ I smile and I mean it. I would have done the same, I think he knows.

‘What did you get?’

‘Eggs.’

He puffs out a huge breath, catches himself. I know what he’s thinking. Small, non-essential items. Not worth dying for. But we need to eat.

‘What are you making?’

‘Eggs florentine.’

He shoots me a glance. We burst out laughing.

‘Do you need help?’

‘Nah, not really. You relax.’