The soil was hard and unforgiving. It took the woman a great deal of effort to drive her spade into the ground and to turn the soil. But it was her land, and there was nobody else to till it for her. So, she dug. Each spadeful brought up more stones than soil: black gravel; white stone that crumbled to the touch; rust-coloured pebbles that gleamed when broken open. Slowly the woman pulled the stones from the earth and threw them aside. She was so occupied in the drudgery of her task that she failed to notice the arrival of the stranger until he spoke.

"They'll only make their way back if you just throw them away like that."

The woman looked up. The newcomer was dressed in clothing that was patched and stained with the dust of the road. A ragged cloak rippled in the breeze, and a long, holstered weapon of some kind hung from his left hip. The woman tightened her grip on the handle of her spade. "And what would you know about farming?" she asked.

The stranger glanced at the shattered landscape around them. Ancient ruins lay as far as the eye could see: the shattered husks of buildings, a line of concrete pylons marching towards the horizon. "I know this is not the best land for it," he said.

"It's all I got."

The stranger pointed towards a rough shelter that had been made from slabs of pitted concrete and corroded sheets of metal. "That yours too?"

"Yes."

"I need a place to stay the night. I'll pay."

The woman nodded. "What you got?"

The stranger held up a forage bag made from dark cloth stitched together with rough cord. "I'll share."

"Deal."

The woman picked up her spade and, turning her back on the newcomer, headed towards the entrance to the shelter. The man followed her.

Despite the dilapidated appearance of the outside of the dwelling, the inside was neat and well organised. A small hearth had been constructed at the rear of the shelter; a crack in the roof above it formed a chimney to draw air through. A storage area took up one half. Dried herbs and vegetables hung from ceiling hooks, alongside a meagre selection of skinned animal carcasses. The other half was taken up by a pallet bed and two buckets.

Something caught the traveller's eye. "And that? Yours as well?" he asked, pointing towards a long-barrelled shotgun that had been propped up beside the bed. Despite the weapon's age, it appeared looked after and serviceable.

"It belonged to my mother," the woman replied. She set about the hearth, rearranging pots and utensils around the glowing coals. "Now, show me what you got." The stranger passed the woman his forage bag, and she fumbled around inside it, examining the contents. She pulled out a handful of desiccated roots. "It looks like you're getting the better of the deal."

The man shrugged. "If you don't want them," he said, but he made no move to take back his bag.

"Didn't say that." The woman started to peel the vegetables, taking only the thinnest sliver of rind from them, and then dropped them into a blackened pot that stood steaming on the hearth. "Soon be ready."

Her visitor used his hat to dust off a section of the floor, then sat down. "Where am I?"

"London." The woman gave him a pitying look.

"Which part?"

"Hammersmith."

The man nodded. "Hammersmith," he murmured distractedly. His hand jerked towards the holster at his side. The woman, seeing the sudden movement, glanced towards the shotgun, gauging how quickly she could reach it. "Sorry," the man said. He raised his hands so that they were both in plain view.

The rest of the evening passed in awkward silence, waiting for the thin stew to finish cooking. When it was done, the woman doled out portions into battered metal cups and handed one to the stranger. The man sniffed at his ration, then took a tarnished spoon from his pocket and began to eat. The woman watched him then, reassured that she was in no danger for now, set to eating her own portion. She didn't speak until the meal was over.

"Over there," she said, pointing to an area of the floor by the hearth. "You sleep there."

It was dark outside when something woke the woman. In the dim, red light of the hearth she could see that her visitor wasn't there any more. He couldn't have gone far, though - his bedroll was still on the floor and his forage bag was still hanging from a nearby hook. As the woman lay in the half-darkness, she heard the sound of voices from outside the shelter: low, guttural voices exchanging hurried words. The woman rolled silently out her bed and crept to the shelter entrance. There, she pressed her face to a gap between the concrete wall and the sheet of cracked plastic that served as her door. A group of five - six! - shadowy figures were clustered together, barely visible in the pale light of the half-moon. One of the figures lay sprawled on the stony ground, with the others standing over it.

"You back in our territory," one of the figures growled. "Got balls to do that. What say we take those from you, eh?" The others gave a round of barking laughter. Then, without warning, the first figure delivered a vicious kick to the shadow lying prone beneath him. "But there's no hurry. We do it slow, like. Let you feel it." He dropped into a crouch, his head close to that of his victim. "We got plenty of time."

Then he turned his attention to the others. "Find his gear."

The woman pulled away from her spyhole. Whoever they were, they were going to find her shelter. She had to protect herself. The woman scrambled back to her bed, pulled the shotgun from its place and cradled it close to her body.

There was a scraping noise from the shelter entrance. A voice called out, "Found something!" The woman opened the breech of her gun and checked it was loaded. Then she took aim.

Somebody pulled the makeshift door to one side. First one, then another shadow crept in. The woman closed her eyes and pulled the trigger of her weapon. Her ears rang from the explosion, but she could see that her shot had caught at least one of the intruders. She fumbled under her bed for more shells and reloaded her gun.

Panicked shouting came from outside. Would any more of them dare to come in? Would they try to take her home by force, or would they wait for her to come to them? The woman made her decision, rolled onto the floor and pointed her gun at the entrance again.

Another shadow! The woman fired again, feeling the stock of the shotgun slam into her already bruised shoulder. This time, the flash of orange fire from the muzzle blinded her long enough for the rest of the intruders to rush through and throw themselves on her. The woman howled, twisted and bit - desperate to be free from the hands that grabbed at her. She kicked out, enjoying the sensation as her foot met something soft and yielding; then she screamed as a thin blade pierced her arm.

"Bitch! Make you hurt!" one of the attackers snarled in her ear. "Make you bleed!"

Another gunshot! The woman felt one of her attackers jerk away. Somebody gave a high-pitched scream, and the last hands holding her fell away. She heard the sounds of a struggle. Blindly, instinctively, the woman's hands fluttered across the floor, found a familiar shape, aimed and pulled the trigger one more time.

Then there was silence.

That season, and for years after, the woman's crops grew stronger and healthier than before.