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And as his medley of Shakespeare's greatest hits continues, this suddenly echoes from inside the wattle and daub walls:

"How couldst thou drain the lifeblood of the child,

To bid the father wipe his eyes withal,

And yet be seen to bear a woman's face?

Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible;

Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless.

Bid'st thou me rage? Why, now thou hast thy wish.

Wouldst have me weep? Why, now thou hast thy will.

For raging wind blows up incessant showers,

And when the rage allays the rain begins.

These tears are my sweet Rutland's obsequies,

And every drop cries vengeance for his death."

I have no idea what play it's from, but I hold my breath, transfixed, until it's finished. The tears turn to ice on my cheeks. When the final syllable fades I release a long, slow breath and rise from my seat.

I walk on, gun in hand, leaving the anonymous actor behind to conjure the spirits of the dead in an empty auditorium.

I have a job to do.

Lambeth Bridge is gone. There's just a spur of stone sticking out over the river, like a huge jagged diving board. I walk to the edge and look down into the water, rising now that the tide has turned, swirling and bubbling with the strength of the current. Fall in there, you wouldn't last long.

A corpse floats past, face down.

The sun is just edging over the horizon as I walk past Victoria Tower Gardens and reach the Palace of Westminster, the seat of British democracy. I stand and gaze in astonishment for a moment at the gun towers and fences, the thin strip of what looks like bare earth between the wire enclosures, and the sign that says 'minefield'.

On the grass at the centre of Parliament Square stand three crosses, with rotting corpses nailed to them. Some wag has scrawled INRI on the central spar of the middle crucifix. The victims hang there staring at the Houses of Parliament which now sport a huge red circle painted across the stonework.

The wrought iron fence that encloses the Big Ben end of the building has had gibbets attached to the stone corner posts. Only one is currently occupied, by what looks like a young girl. She is curled into a ball, naked and frozen. There are five heads stuck on to spikes along the length of the fence.

A bullet pings off the tarmac at my feet and I hear a high pitched laugh.

"You only get on warning shot, darling," shouts the gunman who's just appeared in the nearest watchtower. "And that's just coz you're pretty. Normally I just shoot people dead. Saving bullets, you see. Every slug gotta kill. Waste not, want not and all that."

"I want to talk to your boss," I shout back.

"You want to die?"

"My name," I yell, "is Doctor Kate Booker." That name feels strange in my mouth again after so long. "I know Spider from before The Cull. Tell him I'd like a word."

I look down at the red dot that's dancing around my sternum. "Trust me, he'll see me."

The laser sight disappears and I stand there waiting for fifteen minutes or so. Eventually, the large metal gate swings open and the man from the gun tower stands there, waving for me to approach.

I walk over to him slowly, full of confidence. I feel totally calm, but I know the nerves are going to hit soon and I'm trying to be ready for that.

"Follow me," he says, and he leads me across the lawn and into a cavernous hall, its walls made of huge blocks of stone and its massive wooden ceiling so big that it bleeds into shadow. Our footsteps echo as we cross the immense floor, passing plaques that tell us this is where Winston Churchill lay in state, and there is where William Wallace was condemned to death.

We ascend a wide stone staircase then turn left down a long corridor lined with epic pre-Raphaelite paintings. We emerge into a huge circular chamber with an unlit chandelier hanging above us. I remember this space from television, watching MPs stand here justifying themselves to the press. Four white statues stand silent in the gloom as we turn right and walk down another long corridor to two wooden doors.

The building passes in a blur of murals, stained glass, intricate mosaics and elaborately designed floor tiles. I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, keeping the lid tight closed on the terror that threatens to bubble up and engulf me. This whole place seems exactly as I would have imagined it pre-Cull. There is no evidence of this being the headquarters of a cult. They've kept the place pristine.

We pass through another chamber and walk past a statue of Churchill, sticking his big round tummy out at me as if it were a challenge. Then we pass through a gothic stone arch that seems shattered and wrecked, walk through some big doors and I find myself standing at the far end of the House of Commons. A very faint hint of orange dawn light seeps through the grimy row of tiny windows that provide the only illumination. Tiers of green leather benches rise to my left and right. Serried wooden balconies loom over the room, lending it the air of an arena, which I suppose it always was.

The doors close behind me, the loud bang as they shut jolts me. I spin around but my guide has gone. I am alone.

The room is totally silent, the backbenches deep in shadow. I walk forward on the lush green carpet, towards the table over which the party leaders used to squabble. I'm sure it has some pompous name — the Debating Oak or something — but I've no idea what it is. There are ornate wooden boxes on either side of the table, and I know these are called the dispatch boxes. Or are they? Weren't they the red cases they used to carry?

Oh, who cares.

It's smaller than I imagined, functional and unimpressive but I still feel as if I've wandered on to a film set. That this room should have survived The Culling Year completely intact is hard to fathom. I know there were riots and mobs, mass burnings and massacres on the streets near here. But I suppose the security forces managed to hold the line long enough for attention to focus elsewhere. I know at least one guy who thinks the Government are still here, hiding in air tight bunkers under the ground, waiting for a cure. But the air in here is dead. This is a museum. No-one will ever argue about defence funding in here again. Thank God.

I hear a faint rustle at the end of the hall ahead of me. A rat maybe? I stare into the shadows. A shape leans forward out of the darkness and — dammit — makes me jump and give a little squeal of surprise. Like a fucking schoolgirl.

It's a figure, dressed entirely in a black robe, hood down, sitting in the tall wooden Speaker's Chair. His face is hidden in the darkness, but I know it's him.

Spider.

I stand there, paralysed.

I'd pictured myself surrounded by his loyal troops, pulling out my gun and shooting him, then being instantly cut down, dying there but not minding.

Or I'd pictured myself being frisked at the gate, handcuffed, brought before him on my knees, forced to beg for mercy. But making my pitch well, securing a position as his official doctor, working my way into his trust and then striking the first time he dropped his guard, just a little.

Or I'd pictured myself held down as he raped me then slit my throat.

But this. Alone. Unwatched. Armed.

I reach down and pull out my gun, aiming it straight at the black space where I know his head is.

Neither of us speaks for a long moment.

But he doesn't move. Doesn't ring an alarm or shout for help. Doesn't raise a gun in my direction.

Instead, he laughs. Softly, genuinely. Then he leans back into the shadows, resting his head against the padded chair, waiting for me to make my move.

I step sideways, edging my way towards the gap between the table and the front bench.