The plane still flickered. Things moved in the smoke.

Nate said he was a 'trustee'. He said this meant the Clergy sort of employed him, but didn't expect him to do any of the s.h.i.t stuff. No evangelising, no indoctrinating, and definitely no acting self-important about the Church's self-a.s.sumed manifest destiny in ushering in the New Dawn of Civilisation.

Actually, what Nate said was: "...those dress-wearing a.s.sholes couldn't get me down with that bulls.h.i.t even when they were poking guns in my back" - but he meant pretty much the same thing. "Eventually," he said, "they figured I was worth more alive, tried asking nice instead of just demanding. We've all been getting by just fine ever since."

Until I showed up and slaughtered your mates.

Until your boss ran off like a robe-wearing p.u.s.s.y, and left you behind.

Until you decided to keep me alive rather than kill me whilst you had the chance.

Hmm.

The whole issue of why he'd helped hadn't been entirely covered yet. I'd taken a bottle of supermarket vodka out of my pack to share with the guy - I figured it was the least I could do - and he was sinking it like a fish. I ought to have felt more grateful, I suppose.

Instead...

Those old instincts. Those old voices.

Know everything.

Don't you let yourself owe anyone anything.

Sir, yes sir, etc etc.

Nate said he'd been a little... uncooperative when Cardinal Cy told him to drive out onto the killing-strip just to keep me busy. He said he'd kicked up a fuss at the idea that he should go throw himself into the jaws of the wolf, whilst said Clergyman ran like a custard-coated c.o.c.kerel. Nate said he'd protested vehemently at the treatment, that he hadn't signed up as a trustee just to forfeit himself to let some vicious little p.r.i.c.k live, and that he'd entered into a considerable argument with his fellow sacrificial lamb when ordered to play kamikaze.

He said eventually the guy chucking grenades out the back had to hold a gun to his head just to get the engine started.

That explained why he wasn't in any hurry to rejoin the Clergy. Traitor to the cause. Coward. Deserter. Blah-blah-blah.

Fine.

It didn't explain why he'd gone to so much trouble to keep me alive afterwards.

I asked him.

"More rat?" he said, ignoring me with a bright grin, hacking away at something small and furry with a skinning knife.

I nodded and lifted an empty skewer off the makeshift fire, and jabbed at the slimy morsel he held out. Second only to pigeon.

Over by the plane dark shapes crossed in front of the dancing fires, like inky puddles of moving shadow.

"Still a lot of guns aboard." I said, tense.

And Bella's body.

Nate said the scavs wouldn't be doing any shooting. "Relax," he said, and pa.s.sed me the vodka with only the tiniest reluctance. He said that whatever the scavs found, they'd present immediately - with all due ceremony and cringing deference - to their bosses in the Klans. He said that if any of the poor f.u.c.kers dared waste a single bullet, and word got back to their bosses, they'd be in the hunt pens or skewered on territory poles before they knew it.

I asked him what the Klans were.

He smiled and bit into his rat.

The wind got colder.

Nate said he'd been a doctor, once.

"Kind of," he said.

He said he'd been born in the Bronx and miseducated in Harlem, and but for a lucky seduction in a downstate disco would've wound up still there, scrabbling for cash and crack. He said that twenty years ago - or so - he got lucky with a rich white chick who fell for his unmistakable charms and took him along to England when her company rea.s.signed her. He said she paid through the nose to set him up. He said she enrolled him in night school to finish his basic, then community college, then - pushing harder - medical training. He said every step of the way he worked his b.a.l.l.s off, because it turned out he could handle failure and addiction and crime and poverty, but the one thing he couldn't handle was seeing her disappointed.

It was all a bit 'soap opera,' but I didn't like to break the flow.

Nate said he flunked the final exams so bad he would've done better to leave the question papers blank.

"Morphine addiction," he explained, staring off into s.p.a.ce.

And that, he said, was that.

"Couldn't you resit?" I asked, picking out rat bones from between my teeth. "Get cleaned-up, try again? Seems a bit late in the day to go throwing it all away."

"Yeah." he said, and his voice was quiet. "Yeah, you're right there. Except Sandra - that's the lady, the... the one who took me over there - she sorta caught me with my pants down."

"Ah."

"Yeah. With her secretary."

I looked away, unsure whether to cringe or sn.i.g.g.e.r. "Ah."

When I looked back, Nate's expression was... well, sad - obviously - but something else too. Like the face an exec gets when the deal falters at the last meeting. Like the face I used to see on missions, when the grunts and agents round me realised it'd all gone to t.i.ts, and people were probably going to die, and it just wasn't fair. Like... frustration, maybe. A sense of annoyance at circ.u.mstances beyond one's control.

Which is sort of weird, given that it was all his fault.

Something dark flitted through the shadows outside the circle of light cast by the fire. Nate stared at it for a moment, utterly untroubled, and spat into the flaming logs.

He said - the story rumbling on as if uninterrupted - that the money dried up pretty quick after that. He said he only realised how much he'd appreciated her (and/or her cash, depending on how you wanted to interpret it) when it was too late. Sandra cleared off, heartbroken. He let things slide. His Visa hiccupped and lit-up alarms on a Home Office computer and before he knew it he was Nathaniel C. Waterstone of no fixed abode, with a deportation warrant next to his name and a brand new shiny heroin addiction to support.

I coughed as politely as I could, aware that this man had just sewed me up. "So when you said you'd been a doctor..."

"Yeah." He shrugged. "Kind of."

He looked away and sighed, as if he could see all the way across the Atlantic from where he sat. "London, man. Docklands, Tower Hamlets, the East End. Plenty of places they pay good money for a guy knows what he's doing with needles. Someone... unofficial. You know?"

Nate said he'd been a backstreet sawbones. Mob cutter. Bullets removed, knife wounds cleaned, bodies disposed: no questions asked. I guess I believed him, mostly.

He had an honest face.

Out across the roughage bordering the airstrip, somebody yelped. There were voices out there too - masked by the crackling of our little fire, muttering and arguing. More shapes darting in the dark.

"Scavs." Nate shrugged.

I kept a hand on the M16 and asked what would happen to the bodies of the men aboard the plane. I didn't mention Bella. I wasn't sure why, at the time, but I know now. Even then, sitting with Nate in the cold, the scratching at the back of my head was gearing-up...

Something about him.

"Depends." He said.

"On what?"

"On what Klans they're with. Mostly they'll just... steal clothes, leave the bodies. Coupla tinpot tribes up west got a thing for fresh meat, way I heard, but no way we'll get that s.h.i.t down here. Guy I knew once - you'll like this - said you go through Ess-Eye these days - that's Staten Island, you know? - you're a... heh... a G.o.dd.a.m.n moveable feast. They got crossbows and arrows, man, he says. They got f.u.c.kin' spit roasts, and I don't mean like in no p.o.r.no.

"Up here, nah. Nah. Civilised, man. Welcome to Queens."

His grin lit up his face. With Nate, you never knew how serious he was being.

I asked him again to tell me about the Klans. He chuckled and lit a cigarette.

When The Cull started, he said, and folks started dying in the streets of London, he was holed-up with a gang of Albanians. He said up 'til then he'd been pa.s.sing from group to group - Triads, Afghans, Jamaicans, even the old-school suit-wearing Pie and Chips brigade. He said these Kalashnikov-waving psychos took him on as a kind of examiner: checking the girls they ferried-in from the continent, making sure they'd last in the ma.s.sage parlours and interactive peep-booths. Nate said he'd never stared at so much p.u.s.s.y in his life, and there came a point where it sort of stopped having any attraction.

He said at around the same time, he decided to go cold turkey.

He looked away again.

I got the impression there was more to it than that. But sitting out there in the cold with a fresh bandage on my arm and a half-digested rat inside me, listening to human filth arguing in the dark over guns and knives and all the other s.h.i.t I'd left behind on the plane, I didn't have the heart to probe.

The thing was, someone almost certainly made Nate give up the skag. Maybe someone helped him, nursed him through it, whatever. I don't know. But the thing about Nate was, the thing I could tell within seconds of meeting the guy; he wasn't the kind who made decisions. Not on his own. He wasn't the kind to lead the way.

"Was eight days into the detox when the... the virus, you know? When it got as bad as it got. I had me a... a tee-vee, little one, in the room. News shows, back to back. Bodies on the streets, hospitals over flowing. Pretty much all the Albanians dropped right there. Spat blood, hit the deck. I'm telling you, man, the stink... Rest of them upped and gone. Tried to get home, maybe. Everyone's got a family, huh?"

He sighed.

"I tell you, man... I was scared. There's me, p.i.s.sing outta my a.s.s, shivering, puking, all that s.h.i.t, immune system f.u.c.ked to h.e.l.l, and the end-of-G.o.dd.a.m.n-times plague outside my door. Just about gave up."

I remembered too. London. Chaos. Panic. It was weeks before they could tell why some people survived. Why most didn't. Revealed little by little on garbled TV shows and home-printed leaflets, in that spasmodic time before the media gave up the ghost.

"But I survived." Nate said. "f.u.c.k, yeah. Came out clean."

And so did I.

What I remember most is, the unfairness.

I suppose I always felt I was lucky. Due a fall, surely, but there I was, winning a lottery I never even bought a ticket for. Outside there's priests and nurses and charitable souls rotting on the pavement, and here's me - he's a f.u.c.king killer - breathing clear.

It didn't seem right.

It's a weird thing, feeling guilty for being alive.

"Anyways," said Nate, flicking a chunk of wood onto the fire from a stack beside the corrugated wall, "that put the cap on doctoring."

He said he'd wandered in London for a year or two. He hinted he'd done his best to help where he could - triage, treatment, tidying - but I guess there was always a price.

Nate didn't exactly radiate selflessness.

After two years the Apostolic Church of the Rediscovered Dawn was up and running. I remember that too. The Abbot broadcasting his miraculous sermon every Sunday, the crowds gathering, the scarlet tattoos and chanted prayers.

The robe-wearing creeps strolled straight out onto the charred remains of the world stage, and declared that they alone - as an ent.i.ty embracing values of community, integrity, intelligence and of course faith - could sweep aside the horrors of the Cull and work towards a new, restored civilisation.

They said that they alone could overcome the 'inertia gripping humanity' and rebuild, recreate, restart!

Those.

Arrogant.

f.u.c.ks.

They came to London and spread the word. I ignored them.

They said for most people it was too late. The world they'd known was long gone. They said the people could console themselves with living as best they could, embracing Jesus, making the most of their lives in the rubble. They said devoting oneself to the Neo-Clergy was the only expression of purity and hope for the average man.

But for the children... For the children there was so much more. Innocent, unsullied by the calamities of the past, not responsible for the sins that had visited the Cull upon the world. For them the future was clear. So said the Clergy.

They must build a new dawn.

So the priests came and got them.

At gunpoint, sometimes. But mostly they didn't even need to threaten, mostly it was parents waving goodbye, smiling, proud of their contribution to the world, and that was the worst thing of all.

The church ferried the kids off in blue-painted planes, and ignored the tears and shrieks, and told everyone, everyone involved: Be grateful.

They were going somewhere better, the Clergy said.

Sitting there in the cold, listening to Nate's story, my eyes plucked at the huge banner above me. I shivered.

"They brought them here," I grunted, shaking my head. "The kids. Didn't they?"

Nate nodded.

"Why? What do they do with them? Where's this... this f.u.c.king new tomorrow?"

Nate shrugged, took a slurp of water from a screw cap cantina, and carried on with his story like he'd barely stopped to breathe.

Nate said the Clergy found him on the streets of London. They'd heard he was a doctor. They said they might have a need for someone like that. They might even raise him up to a state of grace. Besides, they said, he was already American.

They had two conditions: "Number one," he said, "they told me I got to have faith. I told them if they gimme a job and food and somewhere warm to sleep, I'll believe whatever the h.e.l.l they want.

"And number two, they said I gotta go back to New York."

He stopped, and looked for a second or two like he wasn't going to continue. It was strange to see. Nate's natural state was 'droning', and every time he stopped to stare off into the darkness with those spotlight eyes it was... disconcerting. "So you came back," I said. "And did what?"