her, left an inch gap
through which to see, and the person stepped into view.
He paused for a while at the end of the entrance tunnel, looking around the shelter, nose raised.
He knows I'm here. Oh fuck, he knows I'm here. He can smell me, see me, sense me!
The man was tall, easily six feet, and stood proud and straight. She thought he was older than his
appearance sug-gested. He had long black hair that was tied in a loose pony-tail and wore a trench coat
that had seen better days. Its material was ripped in several places, and there seemed to be stains beneath
both large pockets, as though he kept some-thing in there that leaked. From this distance, Jazz could not
make out his features, but his face looked pale and long, only the chin and cheeks darkened by stubble.
He held one hand out before him, fingers moving gently as though he was playing the air.
Jazz knew for sure that he was no ghost.
She tried to breathe slow and deep, but she was out of breath from her mad dash along the shelter.
The torch was held between her knees; if it slipped and banged the cabinet, she would be found out.
The man looked around, moving his fingers before him again. What can he see? she thought. She
shifted slightly and looked at the array of cupboards and shelving, trying to pic-ture what it had been like
when she arrived and make out how it had changed. Some doors were open, but they had not all been
closed to begin with. The fridges were closed, the cabinets housing them shut. Some of the blankets on the
mattresses were messed up —had she done that as she ran?— and...
She could just make out the biscuit packet, still half full but discarded carelessly on the floor.
Jazz shifted again until she could see the man. He did not seem to be looking in the direction of the
biscuit cup-board. Indeed, he now seemed to have his eyes closed and his face raised, as though smelling
the air of the place.
"You can come on down now, my pets," he said. "We're very much alone."
The man walked gracefully into the shelter, and then Jazz heard the whisper of many more feet
descending the spiral staircase. From where she was hiding, the footfalls sounded like fingers drumming on
a tabletop, distant and ambiguous.
The man took something from the pocket of his trench coat, stuck out his tongue, and placed the
something on it. He chewed thoughtfully, only turning around when the first shape appeared behind him.
It was barely a shadow, slipping into the shelter and dash-ing across the concrete floor. Jazz tried to
keep track, but the poor lighting defeated her. It was as though this shape —who-ever or whatever it
was—knew just where the lighting levels were lowest and took advantage of that.
Another shape came from the entrance tunnel, then an-other, all of them much smaller and slighter
than the tall man. They came low and fast, parting around the man like a stream flowing around a rock.
Jazz counted four, six, per-haps nine shapes flowing from the tunnel. When she did catch sight of their
faces, she saw only pale skin and dark eyes; the light was too poor, and they were moving too fast to truly
make out any features.
They were all carrying something on their backs.
What am I going to see? she thought. I've moved on from one danger to... what? Something
worse?
The man raised his arms and turned slowly around, and then all the shapes stopped and turned to look
at him.
They were kids. Teenagers and younger. Pale, scruffy, yet most of them with a smile on their face,
and a couple with expressions of outright joy.
"Ahh, my pets, there's nothing like coming home," the tall man said.
Home, Jazz thought, with a sudden longing.
"Now, then," the man continued. He groaned slightly as he sat on a large blanket in the center of the
floor. "Cadge, if you'd be kind enough to illuminate our day's haul, I'd be most grateful."
"No problem, Mr. F." A boy to Jazz's left disappeared out of her line of sight, coming close to the
cabinets and ap-parently slipping between two of them to whatever lay be-hind. She had thought they were
lined against a solid wall, but maybe not. Seconds later, the rest of the strung lights lit up, and Jazz had to
squint against the glare.
There was a brief cheer from the kids and a satisfied smile from the tall man —or Mr. F., as the boy
Cadge had called him.
Cadge came into view again and performed an elaborate, slow bow. He was
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