"Ha. Yes, yes . . . " he scratches at his head, looks around at the room. "So this is your place?"

"No." I shake my head. "I arrived a few days ago, I was just passing by. I thought, secluded, safe for a while at least while I check the radio and-"

"You have a radio?" he bursts. "A working one?"

I almost retreat from his enthusiasm. "Yeah . . . A clockwork one."

"How often do you check it? I mean, is anyone broadcasting?"

I blink, the truth is I haven't checked it since Molly died. "There are a few broadcasts. Nothing of any real value."

"Would you mind if I have a listen?"

"Doesn't sound good does it?" Michael leans over and pushes the power button, cutting off the maydays and calls for salvation. "No matter what we do we're dead."

"But at least there're people," I point out, "We're not the only ones still living. That ship picking up survivors in Portsmouth, there's hope there, they sounded fine."

"They're fine now," Michael grumbles, "but what about next week, next month? Are we going to just sit around waiting to die?"

My thoughts go to the room just down the hall. "Only if that's what you want your life to be," I say. "I heard plenty of hope on that radio. There are plenty of places you can move on to. Places where you can start over . . . "

But Sally has begun to weep. She leans on her husband's shoulder and he begins to rock gently back and forth, creaking the bedsprings.

Feeling uncomfortable in such emotional presence, I leave the room, pulling the door not quite closed behind me.

I've set them up in the bedroom furthest from mine and Molly's, right next to the bathroom. They had been embarrassingly grateful.

Alone for the next couple of minutes at least, I walk down the hall and set an ear to Molly's door. I can't hear a thing.

Cold panic begins to grip my chest.

Why did I let them in? While they're here I can't do anything; can't paint, can't think. I can't even risk going into her room.

There's no way they'll understand should they discover her.

With them here there's absolutely no way I can go through with this.

I run my fingers through my hair. Maybe that's exactly why I let them in. Maybe, I want them to find her, I want them to make the decision for me.

The door opens and Michael pops his head out. "Would it be alright if Sally and I had a cup of tea?"

"Don't worry," I say, "I'll make you one."

He manages a thin, watery smile and I feel a smile twitch my cheek. "We both take plenty of sugar."

This is a test, I realise, as I walk down to the kitchen. I have to really show that I'm not afraid of dying, not afraid of death. Molly is testing me, I have to prove myself to her.

I fear killing almost as much as I fear death. If I can overcome one I can overcome the other. Babysteps, Toby, babysteps.

The gas supply is still running. There's a shiny hob kettle tucked away in a corner and next to it is a small pot containing the sugar. I put the kettle on to boil, place two teabags in two mugs and begin to rummage under the sink, ignoring the sugar.

Rat poison, the box has a picture of a black rat on the front, sharp-toothed and red-eyed.

Molly means more to me than life itself. What are a couple of strangers compared to that?

"Here we are." A smile twists on my lips as I set the mugs of tea down on the bedside table.

Michael gives me his thanks, passing one to his wife.

"Are you not having any?" she asks.

I mutter something about not being thirsty and sit down in the chair opposite the bed.

Michael gives me an uncomfortable smile. He knows something's up. I try not to watch, my hands wringing between my knees, as he takes his first sip. I only look back when I hear his lips smack. "I'd already kissed hot drinks goodbye." He makes a face.

Sally stares down into her mug with a frown. "It's an unusual taste."

"It's Lady Grey," I explain, my voice a little tight. "It was all I could find."

We sit in silence, them drinking their tea while I try not to fidget, cursing myself once again.

"So," Sally sets down her empty mug, the first decisive sound in minutes, but nothing follows. Her mouth hovers open before she blushes and looks down at her knees again.

Michael snorts.

"It's funny," he says, taking his wife's hand. "Me and my Sally, we host - hosted - a lot of dinner parties." He nudges her with a shoulder. "We were the life and soul, weren't we? We always found talking to strangers no real problem but . . . I guess the kind of questions we asked only applied to more civilised times. What do you do for a living, how many kids have you got? We'd talk about politics, theatre, literature. None of that seems to matter now."

Silence falls again.

"It'll be alright," Michael whispers.

I can't bear it. I take this as my cue to exit and collect the mugs.

Back downstairs, I can feel the red eyes of the rat on the box glaring at me, its tab left untampered.

I sigh and stare up at the ceiling.

Above, a floorboard creaks and a small sob punches through the ceiling. "I can't go back out there. I can't."

Over on the other side of the room, the ceiling that floors my wife's bedroom is quiet, tranquil.

I sigh again, wipe the tear from my cheek.

What will it take?

The day crawls.

With nothing to do, I sit in the kitchen in what light the boarded up windows let through at the head of the dining table, letting my shadow cast out longer and longer across the dark-tiled floor.

My hands are clenched in front of me as I probe and test my psyche, trying to find that one little reserve of courage.

My purgatory ends as the light begins to take on a slightly orange tint, the sun touching the horizon.

The stairs thud and creak and the laminated floorboards in the hallway crackle under the weight of sock-shrouded feet.

"Hi."

I turn in my chair to find Michael standing in the doorway. "Hello."

Taking my greeting as an invitation, he comes and sits with me at the table.

"I've come to apologise," he says. "We've been up in our room all day, I . . . You must think us very rude."

I sit in silence, unsure of how to react.

"My wife's out of her mind with worry," Michael confides. "We have a son, he was in London when this all started. We managed to ring his mobile once but all we heard was shouting. We hope we might find him but . . . " He shakes his head.

"Are you married?" He winces as soon as he asks the question, seeing my reaction as my pulse is sent racing. "I mean, were you married?" and he winces again. "God, that sounds so cruel."

I run my tongue over my suddenly dry lips, it's as though the moisture in my mouth has retreated from the question. Instead, it's leapt to my pores. I begin to sweat.

"I have a wife," I reply. "She's . . . somewhere."

This seems answer enough for Michael, again he scratches at his head.

"Have you eaten?" he asks.

I say that I haven't.

I watch as he begins to rustle through the cupboards, taking things out and placing them down on the counter.

The room soon fills with the smell of cooking.

Sally comes down soon after he's started and while Michael works she talks, telling me of how her husband is a fantastic amateur chef and of how he used to have a small cooking column for a local newspaper. He was quite the local celebrity, she beams proudly.

I listen politely and try to turn my thoughts away from the box under the sink, of what I had tried to do to the pair of them. Tried and failed, I correct myself.

The meal is delicious and after I've set my fork aside, stifling a burp, I say so.

Michael smiles, resting his chin on the back of his hand.

His eyes are a little bleary. Sally had found a small selection of wine and, since I had refused, the couple had worked their way through a bottle of red.

I make to stand but Sally stays me with a hand.

"I'll do the washing up," she says.

As she picks up Michael's plate, I see them exchange a look. He places his hand on hers, giving the slightest of nods.

He waits until Sally is at the sink, the dishes clattering and scraping before he speaks.

"Toby," he clears his throat, "Sally and I have been wondering."

Sally pauses in her work for the merest fraction of a second, the back of her neck turning a deep pink.

"It's been so good of you to take us in today. We . . . Well, we really appreciate it. The past few hours, feeling safe and sheltered, have really brought home to us just how close we were to breaking out there. We just spent so much time worrying from second to second, barely even thinking further than the next bush, the next fence, just trying to survive, waiting for hunger or one of those things to get us."

His speech is broken as Sally takes a loud, tearful gasp. Her back still to us, she brings a Marigold-gloved hand to her face.

"But now," he continues, "because of you, because of this house, we feel that . . . maybe there is a future after all." He sighs. "Toby, I know it's not what we discussed but, do you not think we'd be able to stay a day or two longer?"

He tries to look me in the eye. I don't let him. I avoid his gaze, staring hard at the table corner.

Neither of them breathes as they await my reply.

Sally has abandoned all pretence of doing the washing.

All I can feel are the words 'get out, get out, get out' swarming like angry hornets in my throat, clamouring to rush out.

I chance a look upwards. They're both still watching. Michael is leaning closer over the table.

I shut my eyes, unwilling to hear the words I can feel welling up.

"That . . . sounds . . . good."

Michael visibly deflates. Sally begins to cry again. Bringing a soapy hand up to her nose, she mouths 'thank you'.

"You're a good man, Toby," Michael grabs my hand and pumps it for all he's worth. "You've saved our lives, you really have."

I numbly accept their accolade.

In saving their lives, I know, I've condemned myself to one as well.

The wine suffuses my cheeks. I know I'm drunk. Between us we've had four bottles, half the house's supply.

Michael and Sally are sitting on the settee, laughing quietly together.

I can barely see them in the dark, only a little moonlight gets through the boards on the windows. There are candles on the mantelpiece that we daren't light, for fear of attracting Them.

They've done much of the talking. Regaling me with stories from their past, interspersed with more sombre hopes for the future.

The alcohol has numbed me. I like it. I find myself laughing at some of Michael's jokes.

The guilt strikes like a spear as I stumble to the top of the stairs and see Molly's door.

Downstairs, I can hear Sally softly giggling at something Michael has said.

The key slips from my pocket and I fumble it as quietly as I can into the lock. I close and lock the door gently behind me, leaving the key in the door.

Molly is bathed in silver on the grey sheets, the moonlight shining through the half painted window.

She tugs at her restraints to reach me, her eyes glassy, almost like mirrors.

The left is no longer bloodshot. Her internal, stalled putrefaction processes are a mystery.

She reflects my feelings of betrayal back at me.

"Honey, I'm so sorry," I whisper.

Tears running and breathing hard, I clumsily tear myself from my clothing and thrust my forearm in front of her mouth.