They didn’t look like the usual skanky sickbags you saw on the streets. They were thin and pale, with greyish skin, their dark eyes sunk in their cheeks, but showed no obvious signs of the disease. On top of that they were reasonably well dressed, in clean clothes, and they were armed. Two of them had spears and the other two had butcher’s knives and what looked like truncheons. They were like no grown-ups Blue had seen in over a year.

They were still human.

They were sitting on the floor of the cage, staring at the kids as they filed in through the door from the utility room. The cage was bolted to the floor, but Blue could see where it had been battered and bashed. The mesh was bowed out in one section. The grown-ups had obviously been trying to get out. Now they just sat there. Blue felt slightly awkward, embarrassed, not sure what to do or say. He’d got out of the habit of talking to grown-ups. Hell, they couldn’t talk.

It was Achilleus who broke the spell. He walked over to the cage and rattled his spear against it.

‘Yo. Sick dudes. Whassup?’ The fathers slowly turned to look at them. Blue now saw that they had water bottles. He was still trying to figure it all out when one of the fathers spoke, making him jump.

‘You come to get us out of here?’ He was maybe forty, with very black hair, wearing jeans and boots, a denim shirt and a heavy canvas jacket. He had a bandage covering one eye.

‘You can talk?’ said Achilleus, standing back from the cage.

‘So can you,’ said the man.

‘That ain’t a thing,’ said Achilleus. ‘I’m a kid. You’re a gonk. You ain’t supposed to talk.’

‘Yeah,’ Paddy sneered. ‘You ain’t supposed to talk, you’re supposed to die.’

‘Shut it, Paddy,’ said Achilleus and he slapped him round the head. ‘This ain’t a film.’

‘Sorry.’

Slowly the father who had spoken did up the top button of his shirt and got to his feet. He was stiff and tired-looking, groaned as he straightened his legs. Sighing with the effort, he hobbled over to the mesh and Achilleus dropped further back, not sure about any of this. The father was carrying a short spear with a wide leaf-shaped head on it. He rested it against the mesh and looked into the faces of the kids who were standing there gawping.

‘I asked if you’d come to let us out of here,’ he said, his visible eye glinting. His voice was dry and croaky, with a mild Irish accent. Blue wondered how long he’d been in the cage.

‘Maybe we have,’ he said and the man turned his glare full on him.

‘You in charge?’ he asked.