That night, he slept. Yet still his dreams were plagued by a disorientating chase through twisting alleyways and backstreets. Somebody was hunting him. The roads were never ending; it was as though he was in a cartoon, sprinting past the same grey scenery again and again. Her footsteps pounded on the concrete behind him, and he could hear her heavy breaths, swelling up in ragged bursts. She was relentless.

The nightmare ended suddenly; the dream-streets vanished and the footsteps stopped. His brain seemed to protest at being so rudely awakened, and his eyes remained tightly shut.

The overpowering smell of roses invaded his senses. It was the kind of smell that comes from using too much perfume to disguise something not so pleasant. It took him back to his childhood; the woman in his second foster home used to pile on some kind of rose-scented perfume in a misguided attempt to disguise the stench of cigarettes in her hair and clothes. He couldn't quite remember her name, but he could picture her face. She had worn huge glasses with beige plastic frames, and when she was angry a deep line used to appear between her eyebrows, like a crevasse in a mountainside.

Saul opened his eyes and immediately wished he hadn't. He winced, screwing up his eyelids against the white lights. His surroundings became clear as his eyes adjusted to the brightness. He gave a start. He was not where he thought he was. He had never seen this room before; nobody he knew had tastefully decorated rooms in creams and pastel pinks to match the perfumed air.

The sheets that he had been sleeping under were made of a pale yellow, almost golden silk. Frowning, he tried to think back to the events of the previous evening, which were more than a little foggy in his mind. He had gone to his regular dive...alone as usual…but then what? Try as he might, he couldn't quite remember anything other than the fact that he had been drunk by nine. He was not helped by the splitting headache that was raging through his forehead.

"I see you're awake," said a voice that was both invitingly familiar but frustratingly foreign. The words brought back memories of sterile rooms and hard beds.

He turned around, and to his surprise and disappointment, it wasn't who he thought he was.

Then the drunken memories of last night came flooding back.

"What…?" was all he managed to say.

"Quiet. Put your clothes on. My husband will be home soon," the woman said, raising a manicured finger to her thin lips. She slipped a silken dressing gown on over her slightly chubby body, making no attempt to hide her nudity from Saul as she did so.

Saul obeyed, picking his jeans up from the floor and pulling them roughly on. He was still hung-over, and everything felt as though it were happening from behind glass, or a great distance away from him. As his head poked out through his T-Shirt, a thought formed in his mind.

"You never said nothing about your husband," he croaked, meaning it more as a question than a statement.

She lit a cigarette.

"I'm done with you," she said, not even deigning to glance in his direction.

He didn't reply, but rather stared at the bedroom floor, over which various articles of clothing from the night before were strewn. He glanced back at the woman again, who was now staring at him as though he were a particularly nasty insect that she wanted to squash.

Last night's makeup was still smudged on her face; dark shadows were smeared under her eyes and her lips were still slightly red from her lipstick. He realised with a jolt that she was still fairly young. Her makeup had made her look a lot older.

"I know you don't really give a shit that I'm married." She said, taking a long, luxurious drag from her cigarette. He wondered briefly why somebody who was done with him was bothering to talk to him.

Saul didn't reply, keeping his expression carefully blank. To be honest, she was right; he couldn't care less.

"Makes it a hell of a lot easier for you." She took another drag of her cigarette, her eyes closed almost sensually. When she took it out of her mouth to tap it on the ashtray by her bed, her lipstick was stained around the edges of the paper. She turned to Saul, her green eyes gleaming with an icy smile, "Which is why you chose to ignore my wedding ring, I s'pose." Saul felt his cheeks redden slightly and his mouth tighten. He liked married women; it was true, because they came with far less complications as far as he was concerned. Commitment did not suit him.

"I can see myself out," he said, pulling his jacket on. He opened the door and paused, turning to face her, "See you around," he said, raising a hand. Unsurprisingly, she ignored him.

He walked through her spacious living room, disgusted by her standard of living, especially when he thought of his own tiny hovel of a flat. The walls were covered in cream-coloured paper, and the furniture was upholstered in the palest of pink silks, adorned with gold. An ornate fireplace took up most of one wall, above which was a mantel piece where an empty glass vase and a solitary framed photograph stood. From it stared out the young woman, dressed in her ivory wedding dress. She was smiling as though she had heard that you should smile on your wedding day. Her husband was a man much older than her, his trimmed hair parted neatly on one side. He smiled like he meant it.

Saul immediately recognised the uniform that her husband wore in the photo; he was one of Rothwell's men. He squinted at the honours and medals hanging from his breast pocket; he was a captain.

"Hey!" the woman had come out of the bedroom, her dressing gown now firmly done up, "Didn't I just tell you to get out?" She had the tone of one who was not used to being disobeyed.

Saul jumped; he had momentarily forgotten that he was in somebody else's home.

He opened the door into the surprisingly dingy hall and shut it quietly behind him. It stank of urine out here in the stairwell, and the concrete walls had been covered in graffiti.

As he made his way down the stairs, he passed a man with a neat side-parting who was wearing Rothwell's uniform, carrying a suitcase in one hand. Saul wondered briefly where he had been posted; London City? Or perhaps the rebel badlands of the Emerald Isle? As Saul brushed passed the man, he nodded at him. The man did not acknowledge him. Perhaps he had more in common with his wife than Saul would have first guessed.

Arriving at the bottom of the stairs, he opened the door and stepped outside into the cold, grey street. It was early morning, and the frost was still on the ground. The sky was still dark and looked as hard and unyielding as steel, but tinges of pink on the horizon suggested that the winter sun was about to rise.

The streets of Manchester were deserted, as Saul had expected. The rest of the population was probably lying in bed, ready to get up after the curfew restrictions had been lifted.

They're all so bloody happy just to do what they're told, Saul thought bitterly. They were all so happy to live in the lie that Rothwell had created; the New Society was a great one, free from the evils of Socialism which had been the fundamental weakness of the world before the Last War.

Not that you're any better, traitor, said Saul to himself. He was just like the rest of them, and he loathed himself as much as, if not more than, the cowards who went about their daily business as if nothing had changed.

In the distance, he could hear a patrol car rumbling through the lifeless streets. He began to walk quickly, knowing that if they spotted him alone and at this time, he would be hauled off to Strangeways for Threatening the Social Order. It would not matter to the men in the car that he was a collaborator. All they cared about was their next paycheque.

He turned down the alleyway where he lived, past the empty dustbins and dusty ground-level windows. Hauling himself onto the fire escape, he climbed the metal stairs, his footsteps clanging underneath him. He always came in this way if it was late at night or early in the morning, as it was quicker. Besides, the front entrance was being watched. Not that that bothered him; they had been following him for years.

He pushed his window open silently, and then climbed in to his flat. He was an expert at this. It often struck him as quite amusing, the fact that he practically had to break in to his own flat.

He shut the window with a loud thump and sat down on his cold bed. His room was bare, empty apart from a bed and a box where he kept his few possessions, and a candle, just in case. Saul was one of the lucky ones.

As he took his shoes off, he heard voices coming from the sitting room. He froze.

"…He's not in…" a man's voice said, "I just went in his room. Nothing. Just this." Without a sound, Saul stood up and crept over to the cupboard. He nudged the door open, willing it not to creak, which thankfully, it didn't.

"…Probably out selling some more of his friends to Rothwell," a woman's voice replied in a hiss, "Or maybe he did us all a favour and finally left."

Saul's lips were pressed together in concentration as he stood on his tiptoes and felt the ceiling tiles in his cupboard. He had to make a physical effort to stop his hands from shaking with anger. How dare these people, these criminals talk about him as if they knew him? After a few seconds, he found the loose tile and pushed it gently aside.

"I don't know…looks like he was here earlier…there's some plates on the side…bit of food still on them." Saul stretched even further and reached into the gap between his ceiling and the floor above him. Finally, his hand closed on the cold steel of the revolver. Slowly, he brought it down and examined it.

It hadn't been used for a few years; the metal was tarnished now and covered in a thick layer of fluff and dust. He blew hard on the barrel, sending a small cloud of filth into the air.

"Disgusting, isn't it?" the woman said, "Some people are starving and he's leaving food. I suppose that's the benefit of cosying up to Rothwell." He felt the anger and indignation positively welling over.

He pushed out the firing cylinder in a swift, defined movement. There were still two bullets left in their chambers. Excellent.

"If you're that bothered, take it and dish it out the poor and needy," the man answered. Saul moved noiselessly to the door and pushed it open a crack. A thin line of light illuminated the strip of his face from his eyebrow to his jaw line.

He could see two people poking around in his cupboards. The man had a torch, which he was flashing randomly around the room. Through the dusty sitting room window, Saul could see the sun just coming out, its weak rays desperately trying to outdo the flashlight.

The woman stood up, her red hair falling out of its ponytail. She was probably around 40; wrinkles were beginning to show around the edges of her green eyes. The man had his back turned to Saul.

"There's nothing here of any value," the woman said, "Looks like collaborators aren't paid as well as we thought they were." Saul couldn't take anymore. These people didn't understand. They couldn't. He never meant for her to die like that. He never meant for her to die at all.

He hated everything about these people; the fact that they were so content to allow Rothwell to run their country; allow him to take welfare, healthcare, food and electricity away from the ordinary man, but they could never let Saul, an accidental participator, rest in peace. It seemed to him that these people were almost relieved that they had somebody else to blame for the state of affairs, so that they didn't have to hold themselves responsible for not standing up against the regime.

Saul burst through the door with a raw, primal scream, his revolver held at arm's length. The woman let out a cry of surprise before flinging herself to the ground, but the man, who Saul could now see was around the same age as the woman, just stood there, rooted to the spot by shock.

"Who the fuck are you?" Saul spat at them, his eyes narrowed. Neither of them responded. Saul didn't really need an answer; he knew who these people were. They were thieves masquerading as vigilantes; robbing only those marked with the name "collaborator". Saul had been robbed numerous times before by this type of criminal, but this was the first time he had caught them in the act.

"What did you take?" he demanded, shaking his gun at them. Nobody moved. "Hand it over!" The man slowly put a silver candlestick and a sterling charm bracelet on the floor in front him, his other hand above his head, shaking.

"Please…don't shoot…" the man said, his voice cracking with fear.

"Don't shoot…" Saul repeated, fighting the urge to laugh, "Give me one good reason not to."

"We're trying to feed our family…" he replied, "We have nothing."

Saul continued to stare at him, his eyes narrow with hatred.

"Who gave you the right to break into my place and steal my stuff, just because word on the street is that I'm a collaborator?" Saul asked, his lips thin.

"Nobody. But we don't know nothing about collaborators-" the man started.

"Liar…" Saul cut him off, "I heard you. Bastards like you understand nothing, you hear me? Nothing!" His hand was perfectly steady as he removed the safety from the revolver.

"Please…" the man begged, "Think of our children."

If she was here, she would let them go, a voice whispered in his ear. Saul faltered. Then he pulled the trigger. The woman screamed and threw her arms over her head.

The bullet embedded itself in the ceiling above the man's head. He seemed to be rooted to the spot, his face petrified.

"What's wrong?" Saul asked, "Can't you recognise a fucking warning shot?" The couple still didn't move and inch.

"It means run!" Saul screamed, still pointing his gun at them. The man sprung into action; he bent down and hoisted the woman to her feet. Together, they bolted from the room. Saul watched them go, his eyes full of contempt. Slowly, he lowered the revolver and locked his front door.

He knelt down by the candlestick and bracelet. The candlestick he couldn't care less about; that was more principle than anything else. But the bracelet...he picked it up and stared at it. It looked so insignificant in his large, fleshy palm. Tiny little ornaments hung off it; a ship, a cross, a hedgehog and a crown. He sighed, and pocketed it.

Then, he replaced the gun in its hiding place and climbed into his bed. But try as he might, he couldn't sleep.