Paul Kane - Arrowhead

"I'll say it again. What ye doin' spying back here?"

Robert said nothing, not even when the man lifted the shotgun higher, not quite aiming at him, but not pointing it away, either. Robert held up his hands to show he meant him no harm.

"What's a matter, can't ye speak or summat? Bit slow, eh?"

Robert shook his head to indicate that there was nothing wrong with his faculties. It had just been so long since he'd spoken, he wasn't even sure if he could anymore. Carefully, he began to reach across into his open coat.

"Keep yer hands where I can see 'em," instructed the man, moving forward.

"I…" began Robert. The sensation of talking felt odd; alien even. The look of shock on his face must have registered, because the man frowned.

"Just what's yer game? We don't want no trouble at the market."

"No game. No trouble," Robert assured him. With each word, his voice grew stronger. "I've just come along to trade."

"That so?"

"It is. If you'll let me…?" Robert reached into his coat again, very slowly, the shotgun trained on him the whole time. "Easy… easy… See, in my pouch."

The man drew nearer to get a better look. "Rabbits?"

"Rabbits," repeated Robert.

Then the 'farmer' began to laugh: long, hard chuckles that caused his frame to shake. "Oh, that's a good un," he said eventually. "Rabbits… Judas Priest! What yer thinking of swappin' for them scrawny devils?"

Robert shrugged, pulling down his hood. "Whatever I can."

Lowering his shotgun, the other man wiped the tears from his eyes. "Aye, I'd be interested to see it an' all. Well, come on. Let's take yer down there, then, before all the best bargains are gone."

For a second, Robert hesitated, the very thought of meeting, of mixing with that number of people was terrifying. What if the men after him should happen by? "Is… is it safe?" asked Robert.

The man frowned. "Safe? What yer talkin' about?"

He didn't have a choice, he had to ask. "The… the men in yellow suits. The ones who set fire to the bodies."

He looked at Robert like he was insane. "Where yer bin, on Mars or somethin'?"

"Something," admitted Robert.

"They haven't bin round for ages, that lot. Not since the early days."

"What happened to them?"

"Dead," said the man, his face stern. "Like everyone else."

"So there was no cure?"

"Cure?" He laughed again, but there was a bitterness to it this time. "There were never any cure. Look, are ye comin' to the market or not? I haven't got all day."

Robert gave a small nod, and they began to walk across the field. The closer they came, the more he wanted to run – even though he knew the fear was irrational.

What if he's wrong – what if they're still out there somewhere, looking for you?

You heard what he said, they're all dead. Only the O-Negs are left. It's the grand total of the human race.

But…

"So, yer a poacher?" the man said, interrupting Robert's argument with himself. He nodded at the bow to emphasise what he meant.

"Can you poach something that doesn't belong to anyone anymore?"

"I meant before, like?"

"Not exactly," Robert said. And you wouldn't believe me if I told you.

They were nearly at the market and Robert could feel all eyes turning upon him. He wasn't a regular here, and everyone knew it. It was the same feeling as when he used to enter an unfamiliar neighbourhood to make an arrest.

"Well, 'ere we are then," said the man. "My name's Bill, by the way. Bill Locke." He stuck out his hand and Robert examined it for a moment before looking back up at his face. Such a simple act of humanity, of friendship, and it threw him completely. Then he reached out and shook it. The man's grip was rough and firm, once again emphasising that he'd worked with his hands all his life; Robert couldn't compete with that – too many years of domestic bliss before embracing the wild.

He noticed the man was waiting for something, then realised he hadn't told him his own name. "I'm…" I was… I used to be a man called Stokes. But what am I now? Who am I now? "They call me Robert."

"How do then, Rob."

Bill finished pumping his hand, then let him go. Robert noticed that the people in the market seemed to accept him more now that they'd seen the handshake. Whatever Bill did here, whether it was organise the events, provide security, or simply trade, he was well respected.

Robert looked around at what was on offer. On one stall there was hand-made pottery, plates and cups; on another knitwear. A young woman of about twenty was selling these, but Robert imagined some old lady with O-Neg blood, sat somewhere knitting with whatever wool they could get her. And there were piles of other clothing, manufactured before The Cull: no dresses and skirts for women now, though, only more practical fare like trousers and jackets. One man had axes, knives, hammers – tools of various sizes and shapes – set out in front of him, obviously scavenged from hardware shops. A few batteries caught Robert's eye, mainly because he hadn't seen anything even remotely technological in so long. He found medical supplies on another blanket, antiseptics, pills – some identifiable, some not – plasters and bandages. There were suitcases, haversacks and holdalls, which at first he thought were just what the items had been carried here in, but then he saw people bartering for these, too.

There were tins of food, just like the ones Joanne had stockpiled and on which he'd lived after his family had died, but there was more fresh food to be found than anything else. Fruit and vegetables, which looked more appetising than anything he'd ever seen in a supermarket. Someone had taken their time growing these: ripe tomatoes, apples, runner beans, potatoes, most of them sold by a willowy woman with auburn hair. Very few pieces of fruit from more exotic climes, Robert noted, such as bananas or oranges. Hardly surprising now that there were fewer people to bring them in from overseas (and just what was happening over there anyway – were they in the same state as this country?). Everything here smacked of a survival instinct he could relate to, of human beings making do in the face of adversity. The ones that were left behind were obviously slowly forming communities of their own. He could tell that by the handfuls that had been sent to represent them at the market.

The meat – pork, beef and chicken – looked mouth-wateringly good, and now Robert understood why Bill had laughed when he showed him the rabbits. They weren't even skinned or properly prepared. Maybe next time he could bring some tastier treats from the ice houses.

Next time? What the hell was he thinking about… Robert couldn't come back here again. Couldn't allow himself to get drawn into the world again, to make friends, to talk with other people. Even if it were true and the men in those gas masks were no longer a problem, he still had his waiting to do, was still sworn to live out the rest of his life – however long or short that was – alone.

"Your first time here, huh?" said someone to the left of him. Lost in his thoughts, Robert gave a start. Then he looked over and his mouth dropped open.

Stevie?

He blinked once, twice, then saw the reality of who was in front of him.

The boy was twelve or thirteen, with a scruffy mop of hair that had once been blond – possibly could be again given a proper wash – and deep green eyes. He was wearing a baggy tracksuit, with a belt round the middle that had numerous pockets attached. He looked like he was playing superhero, but Robert knew full well that every single pocket would be filled with something important. The lad had a rucksack slung over his shoulder, which appeared to be full.

Robert opened his mouth, then closed it again, having completely forgotten what the kid had said.