The lad had done a good job of assembling the supplies his mother had asked for. They were stacked up in the hall, blankets and cans and camping gear and clothes. Good kid. Ted made a few suggestions. Anything run by battery, like torches and radios. Any batteries they had, in fact. His own old wind-up watch. Any kind of bottle or container they could find, filled up with clean water. Any medicines in the house. Clothes, for hot weather, cold, wet, snow. Towels, for Christ’s sake.

Jack showed him his own stuff, a shoebox of toys and books he was taking. Some kind of spaceship, wings shaped like a black sycamore seed, so worn from play it had hardly any paint left at all. A book, some trashy thing about a virtual reality Gulliver’s Travels theme park, the spine broken from rereading. And so on.

But the lad had only allowed himself this one box. He looked up at Ted seriously. He understands. Ted ruffled Jack’s hair.

Ted gave Jack the keys to the car, and said he should start packing up. Then Ted went to his bedroom, stripped off, and ran a deep, hot bath. There ought to be time for this, and it might be a while before he got another chance. He showered first, to scrape off the worst of the gash, and then climbed in.

Lying in the tub, he made plans.

As near as he could make out, it was as if an earthquake was hitting the area. So: when the earthquake comes, what do you do? He dug into his memory, the emergency training he’d had as a copper.

Run for the hills. But first, prepare the home. Batten down all loose objects. Fill the bath tub and the sinks with water. Switch off the electricity and gas. If he had time, put duct tape on the windows to prevent falling glass.

Find ways to mitigate the problem, not add to it.

He got out of the bath, towelled himself briskly, and pulled on fresh clothes.

He thought about Ruth Clark, a couple of doors down.

It would be murder trying to get Ruth to come away without her damn moggie. Well, he should try; there would be room in the car.

He walked out to the living room, drying his hair.

His relationship with Ruth had never exactly caught fire. And it had been inhibited further since Jane and Jack had come back home to live. Still, when he thought about the future, he’d always pictured Ruth somewhere in it. And he liked to think she thought of him the same way. And—

The floor was buckling, the carpet gathering in a fold.

Oh, Christ.

It happened in a second. It was as if the house had collapsed around him. Furniture fell, plaster showered down from the ceiling, his wife’s collection of painted plates tipped gently off the Welsh dresser to the floor.