The woman nodded, without real reaction. It looked as if she’d had her fill of apologies, too, today.

When the form was done, the woman passed it on to a runner, a school-age girl, who took it over to a bank of pcs for entry at the back of the office. The woman started pointing out features of the theatre, like an air hostess. “You’re in the Survivor Reception Centre. On the first floor there is a Friends and Relatives Reception Centre, in the theatre bar.”

“The bar.”

“Yes. You might find your daughter there. We have a rest area for the emergency personnel, a transit area for people to be passed on to other centres… We’re very busy.”

“I’m sorry,” said Ted again. For being such an arse.

But the woman had already moved on to the next in line, a heavily overweight man with a small, unhealthy-looking dog under his arm.

Ted moved away. “That went well,” he said dismally.

Jack squeezed his hand. “You’ll get used to it, Granddad.”

“Maybe.”

“What do we do now?” Jack asked.

“We find a toilet,” said Ted firmly.

Even that wasn’t so easy. The theatre’s regular toilets were closed up — no running water, and the drains were blocked. There was a single chemical toilet in a Portaloo on the patio outside the entrance, with another immense but patient queue, which Ted joined; at the door there was a Red Cross official, a burly man.

“How about this,” Ted said wearily. “A toilet with a bouncer. Never in all my puff.”

The elderly man behind him grunted. “I hear they’ve got lads digging latrines on the beaches. Just like the bloody war.” And he stared with stolid, resigned patience at the yellow wall of the Portaloo.

When they reached the front of the queue, Ted found the toilet flushing but it smelled clogged, and the floor was slick with drying, dribbled urine. There was a small sink with a faucet that supplied a small amount of very hot, very high pressure water. He used it to get the worst of the blood and dirt off himself, and off Jack: Ted’s own blood, in fact, sprayed over the clothing of his grandson.

He felt newly shamed, that he hadn’t been able to protect the kid even from this.

On impulse he found a clean T-shirt in their single suitcase and got Jack to put it on. He stuffed his bloodied shirt in a waste disposal slot, despite a pricking of conscience. You don’t know how long these clothes will have to last.

The hell with it.

The theatre was getting steadily more crowded, with adults, kids, babies, some sullen teenagers There were just so many kids, for now sticking close to their parents, but with plenty of potential for trouble later.