Sometimes I look beyond the tasks of day-to-day living, away from the world inside my head. I tend to spend a lot of time there because I have no one left to talk to. There are few interruptions now; a branch falling, a skittering animal, a gust of wind.

The world is empty but full of ruins. Crumbling cathedrals tumble to the ground. Dust returns to dust. The cathedrals have always been there. Empty, roofless, covered in vines and moss. There used to be more buildings. They're mostly rubble now. I expect the world will be totally flat one day and I will have no landmarks to tell me where I am. Sometimes when I look beyond I speculate about the cathedral-builders. Then my mind blurs and tries to go to other places. I let it go. Anyway, I have more roots to find. The firewood is running low. Must check on the plastic sheets.

I think I must have always lived in this place. Every April, because that is when the Easter hols begin, I pack my satchel and go in search of the others. I don't carry much with me. All I take is my filter cloth, the three plastic sheets, my knife and a warm jersey. Finding the others is harder now. Some years I have returned disappointed. There was nobody to find. I'm getting used to failure, but I like looking for them. I walk and sing songs for miles and miles. It feels good to hear my voice. It's a funny thing, though. When I do find others I am usually too frightened to approach them. And they seem to be frightened of me! Sometimes we will just look at each other; tense, ready to fight. Most of the time we manage to creep towards each other. The best is when we can greet and talk and laugh. But in the night, frightened again, we run away to be alone because it's safe and sound.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm really there at all. I look at my hand. I stare at it. It is always the same hand. I close my eyes and reopen them, perhaps hoping that in that instant the hand would have changed, become monstrous, alien, revealing something deeper. But it is always the same hand.

This April I set out as usual, singing all the way: 'Hitler, has only got one ball, the other is in the Albert Hall, his mother, the silly bugger, chopped it off him when he was small' It is a happy song and one of my favourites, even if I don't know what half the words mean. This time I went really far. I walked and walked for weeks. Further than ever before. I saw no-one. One day, I reached the end of the land. It's where the sea starts with its lovely smell of ozone and the soothing sound of waves crashing. I soon spotted the old fortifications. Hulks of ships rotted in the harbour in front of them. On the promontory stood the fort. It was an octagonal building. A regular octagon. It had a door and three floors and a roof with a cannon. I spread out my plastic sheets on the roof, to collect dew or rainwater. I pointed them away from the sea, so the salt spray wouldn't contaminate. I had eight good water bottles. Two Evian, one Fanta and five with no label. I still had three full ones left.

It was on the fourth night when the child emerged from the shadows. He was small, skinny and naked apart from a pair of ragged shorts. I stood there with my mouth wide open, shocked. Where did he come from? He looked at me, eyes wide, lips trembling. I heard him breathe out with a slight whinny. For a second I could not decide if I had just imagined him or if he had imagined me. He trembled (or I trembled). Was the camera moving or the filmed object? He brought his hands towards his mouth and squatted on his haunches. How old was he? Year four, five, seven? It is hard to gauge... when one is alone.

'Food', I said, 'Water'

He looked at me non-plussed. I made some signs for eating and drinking. He brushed his nose and drew closer.

'Come', I said, turning towards the fort.

We walked. I in silence, he making all kinds of noise, just like a kid. When I reached the doorway, I went in. He remained outside, squatting on his haunches. Occasionally he would swat away the midges and mosquitoes that live in the brackish pools around the ruins. In the dark, I found my water bottles. By touch I managed to get the one that was full but already open. I also grabbed some seaweed roots. I left the building and gave the food and water to him. He grabbed at them like an animal and scampered off to inspect his haul. He glugged all the water in one go and ate, filling his cheeks with raw vegetable. It would have tasted better tomorrow, once I had cooked it.

It was funny. Watching him, crouching down on his haunches with his cheeks full. A blond-headed chipmunk covered in mud, welts and midge-bites. He reminded me of someone. I retreated and sat with my back against the wall, staring at him as he ate.

'You got people?', I said.

'Mhunk?', he replied.

'Others. Mum, dad, brothers, sisters?'

'Groffnyak!'

'Come on, there must be somebody.'

'Gek lo ta titi.' He giggled, like he had said something rude or naughty.

'Parlez-vous Français, Sprechen sie Deutch, Hablas Español?'

'Prrtzzz!', he said blowing a raspberry. I blew one back. We both laughed at how funny we were.

* * *

Days went by slowly as September gave way to October. The kid came every day to the ruin I called home. He waited for me, sitting on his haunches, until I emerged. His presence changed things radically, but I kept to my routine as much as possible. In the morning, I gathered the water from the plastic sheets to try and fill up the bucket. I would the pass the water through the filter cloth into my bottles. It had rained eight times since I arrived, meaning all of them were full. After doing the bottles, I would go outside and greet the kid. He would blow me a raspberry, I would blow one back. Then we would both hold our noses. 'Pooh!', we would say.

After that we would usually comb the beach. We looked for firewood, seaweed, crabs and shellfish. To start with, we would walk all morning down the beach and return along the inland road. Along it we could find roots, berries and wild herbs. I taught the kid to rub salt water and fennel on the roots before cooking. In the evening I would work on my bow and arrows. There were many rabbits over the grasslands. With two of us, it might be possible to hunt them. It felt good to have the kid around. I would talk about things to him and he would reply with his nonsense. Sometimes he would just mimic what I said and then laugh. His favourite game was to kick me and run away. Then I would chase him and kick him back. I didn't kick him hard, not on purpose. Sometimes I did and he would scream and scream, rolling on the floor. I would say I was sorry and he would shout. It made me feel bad. Like when Jon Whitley stole my pencil case and hit me on the face. He was the biggest boy in Miss Fleming's class and didn't care if he got in trouble.

'Look, the blackberries are out!'

'Grot.' Snot bubbled from one of his nostrils.

'No they're not, they're good. Lots of vitamins.'

'Grot, grot, grotbum.'

'Grotbum to you. Its my favourite fruit.'

'Grekk!'

'Silly boy. You can use them in pies with apple and guzgogs and rhubarb. Lovely.'

'Rhubarb crumble makes you rumble, rhubarb tart makes you fart.'

I stopped dead in my tracks. It was like a brick hitting me, the first words I had heard in four Aprils. My head was screaming and my eyes started to twitch.

'What did you just say?'

'Grotter.'

'You did. I heard you. Rhubarb crumble makes you rumble. I heard you. You said it. Don't lie!'

He laughed, blowing a raspberry at me. 'Raggerkek!', he said.

I couldn't stand it sometimes. The kid was so annoying. Just like Marty Gregson and his gay laugh. Me and Davey and Figgy used to rip pages from his rough book to make him cry. I want a Mars bar yoghurt. I sat down with my head in my hands. Pictures were forming in my head. Stuff I remembered. I was right in my head now. I heard myself scream. Another life was invading me. Another person's pictures coming into my head. My hands were trembling and my right eye twitched some more. This couldn't be happening.

Suddenly he was on me, kicking and shouting. 'Grot, grot, garoo!'

'Fuck off!', I screamed, 'Get away from me you fucking spazzer!' My hand swung out and hit his leg causing him to fall. He looked shocked, staring at my teary face. He got to his feet and ran away.

I sank back into myself. Perhaps it was just the company of the kid. I wasn't used to it, that was the problem. Maybe we are not meant to live in groups. All together, all the noise. Thirty to a class.

It was hours later when he came back and found me. I was still sitting in the same place. A tiny hand thrust itself in front of my nose. It was filled with blackberries.

'Yummy, yum, yum.'

I looked up to see his smiling face, covered in blackberry juice. Permanganate purple, the colour of potassium in chemistry. The colour acted like a trigger, sorting out all the dizzy pictures. Suddenly the memories fell into order, like the blocks on my old Tetris game. Potassium, lime, manganese and hydrochloric. Chemistry was the last class before dad took us home. It was embarrassing to see dad at school, all my friends looking. The aliens had come, there was a war, we had to run and hide. Soon there was destruction and hunger. The aliens came at night, sucking the topsoil and the trees from the fertile valleys. Then they took the ice from the poles and the Andes and the Himalayas. When we tried to fight them, they destroyed two hundred and fifty-six cities. Left nothing but the buildings standing with everyone dead. It took them an hour. So we all ran and hid and cried. Then they left. After that there was nothing left for people to live on. No soil means no food, no ice means no rain. One attack today might mean more attacks tomorrow. We could try and survive, but what was the point? It was all over. My last ever day at school, April Second, was the last day when we could believe that life would be better tomorrow.

I blinked and looked again at the smiling kid.

'I thought you didn't like blackberries.'

He took his hand, still full of berries and placed it under his armpit. By moving his arm up and down he could produce more farting noises. It also crushed the berries, sending permanganate juice dribbling down his side. We both laughed.

'OK kid, tomorrow we look for rhubarb. I teach you not to eat the leaves. Poison. Next April we will go and look for your mummy. She's probably missing you by now. Maybe you got an older sister, yes?'

'Prungle mig!'

'I bet she's prettier than you, git-face.'

Then I got up and we both went over to the blackberry bush. I felt happy all of a sudden. Perhaps they choked on all that ice and soil, or perhaps they would never be back. First winter, then April and we could go out and find the kid's family. There was bound to be one. Bound to. I was in a singing mood.

'Listen, this one is about birds that find the bullies in a forest and poo on them.'

'Yerx.'

'You'll like it. How does it go? 'If I had the wings of a sparrow, if I had the arse of a crow, I'd fly over Forest tomorrow, and shit on the Bastuds below.' What do you think?'

'Lestur.'

'Good. Watch them brambles. They got thorns on them.'