Jamie Oliver would approve of our kitchens — everything's fresh and seasonal, and there isn't a turkey twizzler in sight. But there is a pan of fresh biscuits lying cooling on the sideboard as I walk in, so I snatch one and take a bite before our formidable dinner lady can slap my hand away or hit me over the head with the big brass ladle she's currently using to stir the mutton stew she's preparing for dinner.
"Oi! Make your own, cheeky," says Mrs Jenkins as she glares at the crumbs around my mouth.
"Any chance of a cuppa?" I plead. "I fancy dunking. I haven't dunked a biscuit in ages."
"There's the kettle, the aga's hot, but there's no water."
I grab a bucket from the cupboard, head out to the courtyard and draw some water from the well. It's crystal clear and ice cold. Back in the kitchen I fill the kettle and place it on top of the wood burning stove, which radiates a fierce heat.
"Why so serious?" asks the dinner lady as I warm myself, deep in thought.
"I don't want to lose this," I reply. She looks at me curiously, but I don't elaborate and she takes the hint and returns to her stew.
I make myself a cup of tea and grab another biscuit before heading back to the entrance hall and then up the main stairs.
I push open a door marked No Entry and enter the Ops Room. Most schools have Staff Rooms, but St Mark's is not most schools. Instead of pigeon holes and a coffee area, this room has a map of the British Isles covered in pins, and a notice board thick with accounts of missing children.
I am the first to arrive, so I pull up a chair and sit down, stretch my legs out in front of me and take a sip of my nettle tea. I wince involuntarily. I'd kill for a mug of Typhoo, but we've long since depleted our stocks of tea bags. Now if I want a hot drink my only option is home made herbal infusions. I tut. The Cull has turned us all into new age hippies.
I dunk my biscuit and consider the map.
It is not a standard ordnance survey map; it does not show motorways, cities and county boundaries. Instead, it is hand drawn, with huge areas left blank and small handwritten notes that chart the limits of our knowledge. This is a map of the world left behind, a chart of rumours and hearsay, overheard whispers at market day, tales of powerful rulers and legends reborn. It is incomplete and surely inaccurate, but it represents the best intelligence we can gather.
Where a pre-Cull map would have read Salisbury Plain, this one has a small drawing of a mushroom cloud and the word FALLOUT written beneath it in red felt-tip. The areas which used to be called Scotland and Wales now have big question marks over them because although we know there are power struggles going on there, we've no idea who's winning; the area around Nottingham shows a bow and arrow with 'The Hooded Man' written next to it. There are other, smaller pictures and names dotted about — Cleaner Town, Daily Mailonia, The New Republic of the Reborn Briton, Kingdom of Steamies — these are the major players, the mini-empires springing up across the land as alpha males assert their dominance and begin building tribes with which to subjugate, or protect, the survivors.
Beyond the shores of Britain some wag has written 'Here be monsters', but I reckon there are more than enough monsters already ashore.
I cast my glance down to Kent and the big red pin that marks the Fairlawne Estate, new home of St Mark's. There are no major players in this neck of the woods. A spattering of green circles mark the regular markets that have sprung up in the area. Unlike other parts of the country, the home counties have mostly reverted to self-sufficient communities, living off the land, trading with neighbouring villages, literally minding their own beeswax.
The alpha males who tried to set up camp in this neck of the woods were dealt with long ago, leaving room for looser, more organic development.
My eyes track north, to a big black question mark. London. We steer clear of it and, so far as we have been able to ascertain, so does everybody else we have regular contact with. Even the army, back before they were destroyed, were biding their time before wading into that particular cess pit. I think of it as a boil that sooner or later will burst and shower the rest of the country with whichever vile infection it's currently incubating. It disturbs me to be living so close to such a mystery, and I know that sooner or later I'm going to have to lead a team inside the M25. I don't relish the prospect.
I hear the bell ringing for morning break and then there's a cacophony of running feet, shouting, laughing and slamming doors as the kids race to the kitchen for biscuits.
The door behind me swings open. I can tell who it is by the lopsided footsteps.
"Hey Jack," I say, taking another sip of tea, hopeful that if I keep drinking I'll develop a taste for it in the end.
The King of England, Jack Bedford, drags a chair from the side of the room and sits down next to me, heavily. Without a word he leans forward, rolls up his left trouser leg and begins undoing the straps that secure his prosthesis.
"Still chaffing?" I ask.
He grunts a confirmation, detaching the fibreglass extension that completes his leg and laying it on the floor. He begins massaging the stump.
"It's not so bad," he says eventually. "But I've been reffing the footie. So, you know, sore."
"Come see me afterwards, I'll give you some balm."
"Thanks."
What he really needs is a custom-made prosthesis, properly calibrated. But the tech is beyond our reach. We scoured every hospital still standing and were lucky to find such a good match. I have no idea what we'll do if it ever breaks.
I like Jack. He's sixteen years old, his face ravaged by acne and his hair thick with grease that no shampoo seems able to shift. He keeps himself to himself, and has watchful eyes and an air of secrecy that I'm not sure anybody else has noticed. Only a select few of us know that he is the hereditary monarch, and we have no intention of telling anybody. Jack seems grateful for the anonymity. Nonetheless he has become part of the inner circle at the school, one of those boys that we adults treat as an equal. He's proven himself brave, loyal and capable.
"Anything new?" he asks.
"Yeah," I reply. "But we'll wait 'til the others get here."
"Fair enough."
The door opens again and Lee and his father, John, enter.
"I don't reckon it's likely," Lee is saying, but his father disagrees.
"Think about it," says John. "We know he likes the ladies, and he's got a violent temper."
"But we've no evidence he ever even knew Lilly," says Lee, taking a seat on my other side.
"Lee, she was his son's girlfriend."
Lee shakes his head. "No, I still reckon it's Weevil."
"Dream on," says John, with a laugh.
Neither Jack nor I have to ask what they're discussing. Our DVD nights have been dominated by season one of Veronica Mars for the last two weeks and the whole school is trying to solve the Lilly Kane murder. With the internet consigned to history, no-one can hit Wikipedia and spoil it for everyone else, and I keep the discs locked in the safe so no-one can sneak down at night and skip to the end.
"You'll find out in two episodes time, guys," says Jack with a smile.
"May be a while though," I say. "We're nearly out of petrol for the generator. Can't have any more telly 'til we refuel."
Lee makes a pained face. "You're fucking kidding me. Really?"
I let him squirm for a second then smile. "Nah, telly as usual tonight, eight o'clock for the big finish."
"Bitch," he says, smiling, then he leans forward and kisses me. His jaw gives a little click as he does so, a reminder of the damage he sustained two years ago in the Salisbury explosion. He still has two metal rods holding the bottom of his face together. I kiss him right back.
Lee has just turned eighteen. I am ten years his senior. We've been lovers for six months and he makes me feel like a schoolgirl.