giving some resistance. He leaned his shoulder more firmly into the wood and the gap widened.
Sian moved restlessly behind him. 'Ian?' she said, both weariness and urgency in her voice.
'It's okay, go back to sleep. Don't wake the others.'
What are you doing?'
'Getting rid of this damn bucket,' he whispered back.
'Is it safe? Isn't it too soon to go out there?'
We're all right in the cellar. As long as I don't stay out too long.'
'Please be careful.'
'I will. Sleep.'
He had to squeeze through the opening sideways, the chest-of-drawers allowing little more than a twelve- inch clearance. The bucket was pushed before him.
Once he had wriggled himself outside he switched on the torch, waiting for the dazzle in his eyes to fade before venturing further. The mattress, forming a soft, narrow lean-to over him, smelled musty and dank and he dismissed thoughts of what must be crawling around inside it; all those years in the loft must have turned it into a wonderful home for little creeping things. The concoction of smells from bucket and mattress made his stomach want to heave, but then the stench of his own vomit would have made matters even more uncomfortable for them all. Klimpton swallowed hard. The sooner he was out in the comparative openness of the cellar the better.
He wondered if there would be any cellar left. Perhaps the whole house had fallen in, leaving the basement open to the skies. To the fallout. Stupid. They would surely have known if that were the case.
It had been quiet down there. The distant rumbles were just that: distant. And the air was heavy, stale.
The old Islington houses were solid, built in a time when mixtures for bricks and mortar were not skimped. Foundations were solid. Walls were steadfast. Probably not too much of London was left up there, but Klimpton knew there was a certain protection in rows of houses, depending on which direction the blast or blasts came from. His own big terraced house was roughly in the middle of a block, so he might have been lucky, unless the front or the back was exposed.
With a sigh of relief, he was free. He pushed the bucket as far away as possible and rested for a moment, his shoulders clear of the protective corridor. Fearfully, he raised the torch, dreading what he might find, expecting the basement to be in ruins, ceiling caved in, debris everywhere. Perhaps the night sky peering in. He silently cursed himself for doubting his earlier rationalization. The light beam confirmed his reasoning.
The ceiling, though large chunks of plaster were missing, had withstood the impact. Klimpton quickly swept the beam around the basement and stopped when it fell upon the small window. Rubble had poured through, smashing both glass and frame, creating a slope of debris. At least the opening was completely filled, leaving no room for fallout dust to sneak in.
Using elbows and knees, he pushed himself clear of the tunnel and stood, his chest heaving with the exertion, surprised that such a small effort had left him so breathless. All the hours of cramped inactivity combined with the stale air they had been forced to breathe had taken their toll.
The scratching sound again.
His chest stopped its swelling, his breath only half-drawn in. He swung the torch into a far corner.
Nothing there. Then along the base of one wall. An old bicycle of Kevin's, a three-wheeler. Broken laser-beam space rifle leaning against it. Sian's ancient washing machine - bin men had refused to take it away. Record player, the old type you could stack up eight discs on, valves dead and dust-furred inside.
Another corner. Light bouncing back off an old frameless mirror. Nothing more. The next wall, leading back towards the stairs. Nothing. No junk, no discarded furniture, just ... just ... something that shouldn't be there.
A shadow. But nothing to cause it.
He steadied the torch, peered closer, and—
Scrabbling sounds from above!
Frantic. Claws against wood.
The stairs. It came from the top of the stairs.
And then a whimper. A mewling, begging whimper.
Klimpton let the half-breath go, then drew in a full slow breath. Cassie had heard him down there. The poor old bitch was trying to get to him. He shone the torch up the stairs and the scratching became more frenzied. She could probably see the light beneath the door. He'd better calm her down before she woke the others.
Quietly as possible, Klimpton climbed the wooden steps, at once relieved and disappointed that Cassie was still alive. Alive she posed a problem.
A small, excited yelp as he approached. The clawing increased. As his head drew level with the foot of the door, he leaned forward, one hand resting against the top step, his mouth moving close to the gap under the wood.
Below him, something moved from the unusual shadow in the wall.
'Cassie,' he said quietly.
A small, tired bark came back.
'Good girl, Cassie,' he soothed. 'Keep it quiet, there's a good dog.'
The whimpering, the pleading, continued.
'I know, Cassie, I know, girl. You're scared, you want to be with us. But I can't let you in, not just yet.
Understand, I want to, but I can't.'
The rejection was painful, and the urge to open the door was almost irresistible. He had to be hard, though, had to be firm. Human beings were more important than pets. The dog would create too many problems down there, the hygiene risk would be too great. Cassie was becoming over-excited.
Another shape was born from the shadow. It lingered for a moment, a dark form concealed by the surrounding blackness. It moved, stealthily, joining its companion.
Klimpton wondered if he should open the door a little, just enough to reassure Cassie, perhaps calm her. The dog was losing control, becoming too frenzied.
'Hush, girl. Come on, Cassie, be quiet now.' His tone was harsher. The sound of the dog's paws against wood was a continuous rapid friction. 'Hey, cut it out!'
Cassie wailed while other things slid from the deep shadow that wasn't a shadow but a rent in the wall and floor, a fissure caused by the shifting of earth, the movement of concrete. The rupture reached down to the sewers beneath the streets.
The man on the stairs was unaware of the skulking, bristle-furred beasts, these creeping things, as they filed swiftly from the opening like smooth black fluid.
'Cassie, just shut up, will you?' Klimpton thumped at the door with the flat of his hand, but the dog yelped even more, all the weakness gone from her cries. Soon she began to growl and her master wondered if the ordeal had not driven her mad.
Sian's muffled voice came from below: 'Ian, what's going on up there? You've woken all of us.'
'Dad, is that Cassie?' came Kevin's voice. 'Please let her in, please bring her down.'
‘You know we can't. Just go back to sleep.'
Klimpton knew the boy would now be crying in the arms of his mother or his gran. Bloody dog! As if they didn't have enough to worry about.
He pulled back as something solid thumped against the door, rattling the wood in its frame. Good Lord, the dog was throwing itself against the door in its desperation. He should have done something about the animal before they came down there. Should have cut its throat (oh no, he couldn't see himself doing that) or locked it in a cupboard. But there had been no time, no time to think, no time to act sensibly.
Thump.
'Stop it!' Klimpton shouted, banging his fist against the wood. ‘You stupid bloody pest.'
One of the night creatures stood poised at the foot of the stairs, its yellow eyes glinting, a reflection from the
