So he could only guess at how long the others had been gone. It could have been five minutes; it could have been half an hour. He was getting twitchy. Couldn’t stop thinking about the cut on his arm. About germs and bacteria and Ant, nearly dying in his hospital bed …

He looked at his three friends, Brandon, Jake and Kamahl. Boys he’d known for years, had fought alongside, his team. Boys who looked up to him. Trusted him to be there for them. They were sitting on a cluster of benches chatting casually to each other. He called over to them.

‘Is it hot in here?’

Jake shrugged.

‘You’re not hot?’

‘I’m all right,’ said Kamahl.

‘Yeah,’ said Mick. ‘It’s not hot, is it?’

‘Nah.’

He started to drum a rhythm on his thighs, slapping them. He’d show he wasn’t scared of any stupid bacteria. He’d drum them out of there.

Slappity-slap-bang, slappity-slap-bang.

The funny thing was … No, not funny, the opposite of funny, not at all funny. Ironic really. A real kick in the teeth from God, to be fair. It was while they were in hospital, sat round Ant’s bed, with the bedside TV on, that the first report came on the news about some weird new illness that had broken out in the East End, over Hackney way. The whole family watched it, because it was about illness, and they were obsessed with illness right then. The newsreader said the symptoms were similar to bubonic plague – fever and swellings. Not so different to what Ant was going through. Though he didn’t have any swellings.

God, it happened quick after that.

Ant never made it out of hospital. Poor little bastard. All that work the doctors had done. All those drugs. All that worry. All for nothing. By the time Ant was well enough to get up and walk about, the disease was slicing through London. The hospital was locked down, to try and stop the spread. Nobody allowed in or out. Mick was stuck at home trying to cope. His mum got it early. Killed his dad. The police took her away. Mick hadn’t known what to do. It all went crazy. He tried to get back to the hospital and rescue Ant.

That was the worst part.

He’d got in OK. The security guards were all sick. And then inside. Like something out of a horror film. Sick people, dead people, blood and pus and excrement everywhere. He’d worked his way back to the ward, trying to find Ant. It was hell. The doctors and the nurses all had the sickness, the patients, everyone. They were killing each other. Mick knew Ant couldn’t have survived, but he never found his body. He was glad of that in a way.