Already, the light is failing, shadows gathering around us, the temperature dropping. ‘Bloody hell, I’m cold,’ Cy mutters. ‘I’d give anything to light a fire right now.’ ‘No fires,’ Ben says sharply. ‘We’re nearly there. We mustn’t give ourselves away.’ Not long after that, we reach another station – two narrow platforms overgrown with dead weeds and leafless shrubs, a bridge arching overhead. Even in the near-dark, the signs along the platforms are still readable: Meadowhall Interchange. Ben stops. ‘We need to go up there.’ He points at the bridge. ‘It’s best we do it now, while it’s dark, so we’re less likely to be seen. Then we can figure what we’re up against.’ When we get up there, I see a vast sprawl of buildings along the horizon less than a quarter of a mile away, silhouetted against the darkening sky. At first glance, the buildings look derelict, but when I look again I notice pinpoints of flickering light here and there – lanterns, or fires.
