All these people. And all of them would need feeding, and watering, and toilets. Young, old, thin, fat, good, evil, smart, dull. And yet it was the purpose of all human endeavour, as far as he could see, to preserve every last one of them, as if he or she was the last human on the planet.

And they would all, he supposed, want dignity.

Not only that, they had their pets with them: there were a lot of dogs, rather fewer cats, a handful of birds in cages and fish in bowls, even a few rabbits and gerbils and hamsters in cages or shoeboxes. The animals were already making a hell of a row, and much as he approved of the principle of keeping family units together — and pets were part of the family — he could see there was going to be trouble later; animals and humans, generally speaking, did not mix.

All these people. And this was just one refugee station, of perhaps dozens, hundreds being set up, as the city became a leaking balloon, spilling its people across the countryside, the authorities trying desperately to mop up that sad flow in sink holes like this, trying to get some control again.

When what they should really be doing, Ted told himself, was getting the hell out of the way.

There were volunteers from all over, the British Red Cross and the St John Ambulance Brigade and the Salvation Army and the WRVS and the RAF and the Army, even from the local Rotary Club. They were carrying blankets and sheets and camp mattresses and pillows, packets of food, plastic tubs of water, but they looked a little lost about where to put them.

The RAF types had a job-lot of storm lanterns with them, and at that Ted glanced up at the light fittings. Not a flicker; no sound from any PA. No power, then; that was going to be fun later… though he wondered how those pcs were being made to work.

Ted found the family reception point, as the woman on the desk had described it. It was crowded with lost-looking people, some of them injured. But there was no sign that this place had been set up to serve its new purpose. Not so much as a bulletin board with a box of tacks.

He found a ballpoint pen in one pocket, and he scrawled his name and Jack’s on a painted wall. Jane Dundas. We’ll find you.

An anxious-looking young woman begged the pen from him, to add her own message — Mum’s here — and then another after her.

A queue started forming.

Ted turned to Jack. “Nothing but queues,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Don’t suppose I’ll see that pen again.”

“No.”

“So what do you think, lad? This place is a mess. How do you fancy a little work?”

Jack nodded seriously. “I think they need our help.”

“That they do.”

Ted led the way downstairs again.