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'We were too scared to go far,' replied Muriel, her interest still on the gold mine of food around her.

'The nearest houses were the furthest we strayed. Mostly we ate from the centre's own stores. We were afraid we'd catch some disease off the dead, or even be infected with the Blood Death itself. Nobody knew anything, you see, not even the scientists in charge of research. Are those cabbages I see?'

She hurried to another box on the floor. 'Oh, and Brussels sprouts, and onions. You must have worked hard to have achieved all this, Mr Hoke.'

'Just Hoke,' I told her, then shook my head. 'All I've done is kept a few things going. It isn't much, considering.'

'May I?' Stern had followed us through to the sitting room and had lifted a single pack of Camels from a carton on a straight-backed chair.

I nodded and he quickly broke open the pack. He put the cigarette between his lips, then searched around for matches.

'Over there,' I pointed to the mantelpiece above an extinct electric fire.

As he took a box of Swan Vestas from my stockpile of matches, he studied himself in the dust-dulled mirror over the mantelpiece and frowned. He was filthy, but it must have come as a slight shock. Maybe he'd always thought his kind didn't pick up the dirt like the rest of us.

'I need to wash,' he said, more to his own reflection than to me. 'You say there is plenty of water in this hotel?' Now he was looking at me, but only through the mirror.

'The Savoy has its own artesian wells, but the pumps are out of action. The tanks are still pretty full, though.'

'Me first,' Cissie insisted quickly. 'I can't go another minute stinking like this.'

I guessed stinking wasn't a word Muriel used a lot, especially when it applied to her own body, but she was nodding in agreement 'Yes, I'd like to get cleaned up too. Then perhaps we can enjoy some of this lovely food; I'm beginning to feel quite faint and it's not just from fatigue.'

I addressed them all: 'You're in a building full of bathrooms, so you won't have to take turns. But stick to this floor, don't go wandering oft'

I noticed the German, now puffing away at his cigarette, had strolled over to the Ml carbine leaning against the writing desk and my hand went inside my jacket when I thought he was going to pick it up.

Instead he passed by the rifle and went to the tall window overlooking the park and River Thames below. The drapes were open, but a lace curtain covered the glass.

When he raised a hand to draw the lace aside, I said, 'Leave it alone. I close the curtains at night if I'm using light-' I indicated the candles and lamps set around the room '- and in the daytime the netting is always kept in place.'

'In case someone looks up and wonders?' he mused, and although I couldn't see his face, I knew there was a half-smile there. 'Quite unlikely, wouldn't you say?'

'Unlikely or not, I don't take chances.'

'I could do with a stiffener.' Potter had sat himself down on the edge of the sofa and was eyeing the array of bottles crowding the low coffee table in front of him. Gin, vodka, and several brands of whisky -

Famous Grouse, Haig, Johnnie Walker, and even good ol' Jack Daniel's, as well as bourbon and rye - all of them severely rationed during the war, but not nowadays. Hell, there was even the Savoy's own special blend to drink, a Scotch as fine as any I'd tasted, and I'd tasted a lot during my lonely nights in this city. Then there were the wines - hocks, moselles (yeah, German, old stock, I guess), clarets and burgundies, even some vintage stuff - sharing space on the edge and underneath the table with cartons of cigarettes - Lucky Strike, Camel, Wills Capstan, Churchmans No 1, and some I hadn't even taken note of. Genocide had turned me into a heavy smoker as well as an inebriate.

'Help yourself,' I said to Potter as his roving gaze took in all that was on offer. 'I'll get you a clean glass.'

'No need, son, no need.' He gave a satisfied grunt and reached for the Grouse. 'Plannin to drink an'

smoke yerself to death, was yer?'

He didn't wait for a reply, nor did I bother with one. His plump fist closed over the neck of the bottle and he gave the top a twist

'Yer know, I was always scared to come inta the Savoy after those last V2s dropped.' He paused to hold the bottle up and examined the golden liquid before he drank, the toose cap in the palm of his other hand. 'Even though I'd seen you comin and goin a few times, I was still frightened of what I might find in

'ere. I coulda raided the American Bar easy enough if I'd had the spunk to come inside, but nah, somehow it wasn't in me.'

He took his first swallow, the whisky glugging into his throat

'You weren't afraid of entering the Civil Defence shelter,' I reminded him.

'That was different. I knew most of them people. I wasn't as funny about it. But this lot in here - toffs, rich people, even some of our own leaders, members of the War Office an' that - well, I didn't feel it was my place to intrude.' He took another, longer, swig from the bottle, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and eyed me again. 'If yer know what I mean.'

I didn't think I did, but I was in no mood to think about it. I faced the others. 'You can have your own separate rooms along this hallway, but don't go any further. All the suites on this side of the third floor interconnect, though the doors are locked right now.'

'You are a cautious man, Hoke.' Stern had remained by the window and the light shining through the nets revealed how spoilt his tweed jacket and pants, so neat and clean when we'd first met, had become. A sleeve and a pocket were torn, his shirt collar crumpled; yet as he drew on the cigarette, his arm across his chest, hand holding his other raised elbow, he still had that air of superiority about him, that icy arrogance we'd come to expect from the Master Race. Movies and propaganda had told us this was how they were, how it was part of their Aryan nature, and I'd never doubted it for one moment

'A cautious man.. .' he went on, and I wondered if it was mockery I saw again in those colourless eyes

'... yet today you were almost caught by those Blackshirts, as you call them.'

'Sometimes it happens,' I said by way of explanation. Going to the coffee table, I picked up a Johnnie Walker, one-quarter full, its cap missing. 'But it won't happen again,' I added before taking a long, long drink.

That evening, using two of my three portable gas cookers, I made them all a meal. It was only Spam, tinned peas and boiled potatoes, followed by peaches and custard, but they made ecstatic sounds as they wolfed it down.

Earlier I'd shown them other rooms they could use as their own sleeping quarters, the two girls moving in to a suite next door to mine, Potter and Stern in separate rooms further down the corridor, the old warden at the end of the line. I kept all the interconnecting doors locked. They were surprised to find that these rooms were used as store rooms as well, although none of them was as cluttered as my own suite, but there were no complaints. Not that I cared one way or the other. I left them to settle in and went back to my rooms where I threw off my filthy, ripped clothes and showered - the reduced water pressure still allowed a Niagara Falls soaking under those big Savoy shower heads. Although goosebump cold, the water freshened me up a whole lot. A fast shave was followed by some attention to my injuries.

The wound where the bullet had passed through the shoulder of my leather jacket was only skin deep and iodine (Christ, that hurt) with padding held in place by sticky plaster took care of it. My ankle was puffy and soft, but I knew no bones were broken, so the swelling would go down within a day or so if I bandaged it tight. The bruising on the same leg was just beginning to show through and was already looking ugly; it stretched from calf to mid-thigh and the muscles underneath were stiff and painful. For a while walking would be a problem, but no big deal. Cuts and grazes were soon dealt with and the rest of the bruises could take care of themselves. My hair was singed - the front looked like scorched corn -

and the skin on my face and the backs of my hands was puckered and flaky; likewise, though, no serious damage. Oh yeah, and the knuckles of my right hand were scraped raw. All things considered, I'd been lucky that day - more lucky than I deserved - and I'd also been taught a lesson. Lately I'd become complacent, figured myself too smart to be nailed by the crazies. Well, I'd been wrong. Stupid and wrong. And the booze was taking over. Like