I hear news reports saying these dead people, the ‘reverts’, are violent. They attack without provocation, kill in some cases, seemingly enjoy the harm and panic they cause. I see open battles on streets, feel the body-shaking rattle of bombs, the police and army overwhelmed, the National Guard beaten, thousands of psychotic returnees, ‘Sykes’ as they become nicknamed, fighting bitter battles and winning. I listen to the radio when the TV becomes inactive, government statements telling us that authorities have learned there are two factions, the dead who love to kill and the dead who do not, psychotic and sympathetic, Sykes and Symps. As it’s difficult to tell which is which, they are evacuating the city.

I see empty streets, neighbours wishing us well and leaving, silence in their wake. Us packing to go when the knock comes, and when we lift the slat my brother is there in his blood-splattered army uniform, waiting patiently, head low. There’s shouting, Danny waving the gun, even though that part didn’t happen like that. Sherwin is being led into the empty flat downstairs, and Danny kicks off the door – which really did happen – and then it’s all threats, and rope. And though in reality Sherwin simply looked at me, pleading with his eyes for me to make Danny stop, in the dream he is screaming, tears rolling down his cheeks, saying, ‘Save me, Nicki, save me.’ I feel a wrench in my gut, and wake to feel the crushing pressure of night, and I know Danny’s going to kill my brother.

I slide out of bed. Danny’s snoring on his back. I pick the crowbar up from where I always leave it next to my bed, grab my dressing gown, keys, and creep to the flat door, let myself out of the building. The night’s mild, the moon high and luminous. The air is filled with moisture. I loved nights like these not long ago. A fox spies me, eyes gleaming, and runs.

I go down the stairs with my crowbar raised, letting myself in with Danny’s keys. Sherwin is sleeping, chin tucked into his chest, dribbling. I shake his arm. He jerks, looks around, mumbles.

‘Ssssh …’

‘What you doing?’ he’s hissing.

‘Go,’ I say. ‘Get out of here, now. We’ll meet at the evac point on Wormwood Scrubs.’

He’s unsure, snakes himself free anyway. I hug him tight, the first time I’ve done this since he came back to find me and it’s like holding a block of ice. He’s uncomfortable. He pulls away.

‘I better go then.’

‘OK. Go.’

He heads for the open door. I see orange light stream inside the flat, his silhouette. I take a last look and leave. Sherwin’s limping up the concrete stairs. I follow, seeing something from the corner of my eye. Sherwin stops, raises his hands slow, palms up.