When it was over we walked without speaking back to the house. My hands were stained with blood and the air around us smelt like meat and metal. When we got to the door, Sarge patted me on the shoulder and told me I’d done well.

We cooked the rabbit that night. Sarge said it was my birthday feast. He’d made some home brew and he poured a glass for the two of us. Then he raised his cup in the air and said, ‘To the victor the spoils.’

Sarge says the meat will last us for five meals. The bones will then go into a stock for soup that will feed us for another five.

‘Survivors’ is what Sarge calls us. The two of us out here on our own, facing down the world and winning. And today I felt like a winner when I carried that rabbit home. I did me and Sarge proud.

3

Lisa

I sit for a minute and try to gather my thoughts. Behind me, Joe snores gently. I look at the time on the dashboard clock: 4.00 p.m. Soon the light will be gone altogether. And exploring that house in the dark doesn’t bear thinking about. I take my dad’s torch out of the glove compartment then open the car door and make my way back towards the house.

As I grip the torch in my hands and shine its reassuring light ahead of me, an image of my dad walking through Highgate Cemetery flashes before me, his long black coat trailing behind him. He would take me to the cemetery at twilight on Halloween to ‘get into the spirit’. I smile as I remember his round pink face peeking out of the hood of his coat as he stood by the statue of Karl Marx. ‘You’re about as scary as a wet lettuce, Frank,’ my mum would giggle as he came down the stairs in his Halloween get-up. And she was right. But that didn’t matter to Dad. What mattered was making every occasion special for me, whether that was Halloween or Bonfire Night, Christmas Day or my birthday – each one was to be treasured and celebrated. When you’re loved as much as I was as a child you feel invincible, like the horrors of the world will never find you. You’re protected.

If only Dad were here now, I think to myself as the torch illuminates the front door, he’d know what to do. He always knew what to do.

The door is covered in dirt and cobwebs. Following the instructions from the note I turn the handle and push against the heavy wood with my shoulder. It eases a fraction but it’s stiff and heavy. The cobwebs cling to my skin like that sticky weed that used to grow in my parents’ garden back in Highgate. I wipe my hands on my jeans then push at the door some more until finally, with a sharp creaking sound, it yields.