Empty World by John Christopher Page A

him and realized he had missed his way again and gone through Hampstead to the Heath. It was annoying but at least he knew he was very close to his objective. He swung the car round in an arc that ran it over the pavement, barely missing a fence, and drove back. He wondered if they might have heard the noise of the engine, and come out to look for him.
    Heath Avenue was a broad road, flanked by trees whose branches bore yellowing leaves that floated down in the path of the car, and by tall red brick houses. No-one had turned out, but the slight feeling of let-down went as he caught sight of No 34.He had no need to check the number: a sheet spread across the front, each end secured to a window, carried in bold black paint the single word:
    WELCOME.
    A sports car was standing outside, its relatively clean windscreen evidence of recent use. Neil parked behind it, and got out. He ought to have put up a sign outside his own house, he realized. For that matter, he should have thought of something like the balloons. The inhabitant of No 34 was obviously more enterprising.
    The front door was latched but not locked. He opened it and stepped into the hall. He called out:
    â€œHi, there! Anyone home?”
    There was no reply. He had a moment’s disappointment, but only that. At this time of day, he himself would have been more likely to be out than in. The stranger would have his own routine of walks and foraging.
    A residue of old habits and etiquette suggested that he ought not to make himself free of someone else’s house without the owner’s invitation: he shouldwait on the step or outside in the car. But he realized how silly that was. The old ways were gone; ownership no longer had a meaning.
    All the same, his exploration was tentative. The hall, he observed, was quite tidy, and he ventured further to find a kitchen with pots neatly stacked and working surfaces much cleaner than those he had left in Princes Gate. Cupboards were well stocked with food, and a Calor gas stove had been imported into an otherwise all-electric set-up. Crates of beer stood in a pile against one wall. The whole scene had an organized look.
    He went upstairs, noting that the carpet on stairs and landing had been recently swept. An open door led to a large sitting room, equally clean and with the stamp of daily use. On a desk were two piles of heavy white cartridge paper, one blank, the other consisting of pencilled sketches. They must have been done by the person living here, because they were post-Plague. That showed not only in the emptiness of the streets he had drawn, but in particular things—a shattered shop window with goods in disarray, a skeleton at a road junction. The sketches were neat and realistic, the work of a draughtsman.Near the window, though, stood an easel, with a half-finished oil painting. That was a frenzy of colours and shapes; Neil could not tell what it was meant to represent.
    There was a bowl with apples, something Neil had not seen for a long time. There must be an orchard nearby. The bowl stood on a table, which also held a ledger-type book. He opened it to see writing—the handwriting that had been on the card—and to recognize it as a diary. He closed it, and went on looking round the room. On the mantel an atmospheric clock spun its circular brass weight to and fro, half a minute to each spin. Someone who wanted to keep track of time, an interest he had long abandoned.
    He continued with his exploration. There was a bathroom across the way, again very clean, with a ­kettle in which hot water had presumably been carried up from the kitchen. The best solution, he decided, would be for both of them to abandon their present dens—to join in finding a place where a full hot water system, perhaps central heating as well, could be run off Calor gas. He was pleased with himself for the thought: he could be enterprising as well.
    The door of the next room was ajar. Neil pushed it open and saw that