“I… it’s possible, of course, but it looked like a detonation to me.” My mind travels back to the brightness of the first flash, the burns on the back of my calves that are still throbbing, just starting to itch as well as hurt, and the dust coating the interior of my little girl’s bedroom. Most of all, that dust. On the floor, and in the rain, staining the drops brown as they ran down the waterproofs I threw over myself and Charley as I carried her across the lawn into my neighbours’ garden. If it was London, only a warhead would get the blast and debris to us that quickly. Which means the rem count in the fallout that is soaking into the ground outside, and that is coating my daughter’s room – that we inhaled and lay under for at least thirty minutes before Pete and his torch came to the rescue – is more than enough to kill us all.

I look back at the sleeping bundle next to me, and completely miss the next question.

“Sorry?”

“I said, how do you know all this?” It’s Sharon talking, and I turn to look at her.

“Erm, well, I don’t know anything, really. But I was in CND for a few years, and I read a lot about the subject back then. I mean, I imagine I’m out of date, there’s got to have been… developments, technological, what have you, but…”

“…but you think…?”

“…Yeah.”

We sit in silence, I sip mud. My mind pulls me back to Charley, and I place a hand gently on the blankets covering her, feeling the rise and fall of her breath.

I feel tears threaten then.

“Okay, so what now?”

I look up at Pete. His tone is almost conversational, but there’s a desperate hunger in his eyes.

“Well, I’d start with a radio. If it… if it’s just London, there should be some broadcast from elsewhere…”

“Manchester!” His face brightens.

“Well, yes, possibly…”

“Yeah, with the BBC move from London. Of course. We’ve got one in the shower, I’ll just…” He gets up slowly, carefully, and heads out of the living room.

I look at Sharon. She smiles, but it looks like an effort. She’s clearly terrified.

“What do you think happens next?” There are questions behind the question, and panic just under the surface, and the obvious answer feels… unhelpful.

Be kind.

“At a guess, I’d say there’ll be an evacuation.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”

“Look, honestly, I don’t know any more than you, I’m just guessing, but…”

“No, no, I understand…”

“…hopefully the radio will tell us more…”

“My dad was an evacuee, you know. During the war.”

It’s uncomfortable, almost painful, this reaching for something relatable, something grounding. Part of me wants to laugh, but I’m not remotely amused.

Be kind.

“Really?”

“Oh, yes, he…”