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The man was French-Canadian, and Vicky had known from the moment he’d opened his mouth that he didn’t pose a threat. His name was Eric Layette. He was shabbily dressed (wasn’t everyone?) and behind the shaggy hair and even shaggier beard, she estimated he was probably in his mid-forties. He talked incessantly when it was safe to do so, and kept his mouth shut the rest of the time. ‘We had a few looters come here before you,’ he explained. ‘Mostly ones or twos at a time. You’re the most organised.’
‘Sorry for taking your stuff,’ Vicky said. ‘We didn’t realise anyone had staked a claim to it.’
‘What, even after we put a new padlock on the door to replace the one you broke?’ He shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter. We like to stay quiet and stay local. Keep ourselves to ourselves. Don’t want any t
