The sheer number of people out on the streets of London was too many to estimate. The alley directly outside John’s building was relatively quiet, but just looking up ahead where it met a major road, they could see a current of bodies being pushed along.

Chants and shouts greeted them as they approached the edge of the flow, and eventually they got too close that the only option left was to join it. Sink or swim. Move or be moved.

Jessa felt as though the whole world must be able to see the concealed weapon strapped underneath her jacket. Fortunately for her, everyone was too preoccupied with the goings on to either notice or care.

It wasn’t a particularly warm spring day, but it didn’t take long for them to be feeling uncomfortably warm and for their showers in John’s clean and peaceful bathroom to seem like a very distant memory. Thousands of people, unwashed and uncontrolled, emitted their unstoppable scent into the stifling air.

What would once have been an enjoyable walk through Central London had become dangerous and wearisome. Glass from smashed shop windows crunched underfoot. Luxury homes slumped in the rapid depreciation of their locale. Worried homeowners tried desperately to hide away any treasures contained in their property by boarding up windows with anything they could find; kitchen cupboard doors nailed heavy-handedly into the window frames. Haphazard.

Rachel was able to view real-time satellite maps to guide them to St Paul’s Old Cathedral via back roads and lanes. The long route.

Jessa had always hated the longest way of doing anything. As a young child, she’d quickly learned that shortcuts were almost always her preferred option, even if it meant a less desirable outcome. For example: spend less time doing homework, therefore play video games sooner, and put up with getting a B or a C in school. Skip any unnecessary girlish primping in the morning, therefore get to sleep in later, and put up with being deemed homely by the popular kids or hearing from family ‘you could be so pretty if you put in a little more effort.’

The long route to St Paul’s wasn’t just a matter of geography—it was mentally and physically draining. Constantly aware of avoiding confrontation with any more aggravated protesters, Jessa pulled up her hood and kept her head down. She held tightly onto Audrey’s hand, letting her older sister lead her through the crowd.

Jessa’s stomach occasionally grumbled as an unkindly reminder that her belly had received little else than shepherd’s pie and a few Christmas biscuits that John had remembered were hiding in one of his cupboards.

They took methodical sips from canisters John had prepared for them. Jessa let the saccharine substance coat her mouth before gulping it down. It wasn’t unpleasant in taste, but it was too viscous to be quenching, and too limited to be savoured at all. The perfect energy source, John had said, it combatted thirst and blood sugar levels in one. Jessa had doubted him then, and she continued to doubt him with every gelatinous swig.

Thoughts of summers gone and homemade lemonade played on Jessa’s mind as she, Audrey, Hugo, Flynn, and Dr Mortlock plodded on, barely saying a word to one another. Jessa wondered if they would survive another summer. She wondered if she would survive another night.