The return trip from Heathrow Airport with Uncle Andy was quiet and subdued but without incident. Greg put enough fuel in the boot to not need to stop and fill up, which avoided any service station unpleasantness - apparently a lot of them are getting really dodgy for crimes. We listened on the news in horror as they reported a huge uptick in murders near Cheltenham - I guess some of the things English Village were talking about. The prison rumour is picking up a lot of steam - government officials are going out of their way to deny it but rumours persist.

Uncle Andy was silent throughout, hardly responding. He looked incredibly tired and even went to sleep in the car with his coat for a pillow.

We got home safely and quickly - with so little traffic it's easy to make time.

Andy wouldn't talk to greg and mum - but as soon as we got home they almost pointedly ignored him anyway. Greg was totally at odds with Andy's 'liberal nature' and mum just didn't know what to say. They both went off to work. This continued, for about a week, with my Uncle all but silent, just eating, sleeping and reading spy novels stolen from dad's old collection.

Andy sat in the kitchen, making his way through the cake I'd baked the day before, when I came in from school. I got a piece of bread and was amazed when he started to talk. For five days he'd been like a mute.

"Still in school then?" His voice was husky and strained, nothing like it used to be.

"I just started my A-levels." I turned to him. "Uncle Andy, what happened to you out there? What's wrong? Was it the accident?"

He didn't reply for a second and then looked at me.

"No," he said, softly. He ran a finger along the cut above his eye. "I got this a couple of bruises and burns but the explosion was at the other side of the tanker, it's not too major."

"Then why?" I asked. "Why are you so quiet? You look like you've seen a ghost."

He looked at me, eyes that used to be filled with light and fun now totally serious.

"Maybe I have," he said. "Maybe I've seen the ghost of what the world used to be like."

He started to tell me about the things he'd seen in the weeks since the tanker accident, first in Yemen and then in Saudi Arabia.

"Yemen wasn't too bad," he said. "I was in the hospital and although people were upset and poor, they had always been upset and poor. This wasn't much different.

"Saudi got steadily worse." The words were all coming out in a rush now, all the things he'd seen and not been able to tell. "I saw riots everyday, looting, militia. Every few days another refinery would be hit. Anyone they caught was summarily executed, beheaded in the central square.

I didn't know what to say, just stood with the plate in one hand, listening to him.

"The news coming through from the region was worse." Now that he'd started, he didn't stop. "It was worse than what Iraq had been like before - the major powers like Iran had their hands in everything - most of the south of Iraq is part of Iran now, and the Kurds have their own war with the Turkish. Syria's keeping quiet, but everyone knows they're waiting for the chance to take the western part of Iraq."

"What about the oil, and the American troops?" I asked.

"Most of them are holed up in Baghdad," he said. "It's all they can do to keep the green zone. Keeping hold of the oil is like trying to keep water in a bucket with holes in it."

"But you were in Saudi Arabia!" I said, unable to understand the utter desolate look on his face. "I thought they were rich, and secure!"

"Mia," he said,changing his tone so as to catch my attention fully. "They were the ones that caused this crisis."

That bombshell hung in the air like the aftermath of a clap of thunder. I put the plate down.

"What?"

"The oil reserves ran out," he said with a shrug. "They've been overstating their reserve for years. There were always rumours in the company but it was never confirmed. One day, one of the fields started to dry up and they began using reserve instead, hoping to find a new source. They didn't."

"And the oil shock?" I asked. Andy spread his arms.

"They ran out of reserves," he said. "About half their production ground to a halt. The company decided not to let us go back in case we let the story out. By two weeks ago the chaos had gotten so severe it didn't matter anymore. Militia's clashed across the refineries, trying to control the export of what was left. No one had heard about the Royal family in weeks. Me and seven other guys from the company decided to get out. We paid one of the militias to take us to the Red Sea, and hitched a ride up the Suez canal into the mediterranean. There must have been three times as many people on the ferry as there should have been. Most of them were turned back as soon as we got to Greece. We had British and American passports so they let us fly back here."

He looked at me with hollow eyes.

"I had to shoot people, Mia." His eyes were moist with tears. "The militia tried to double cross us near the city border. They killed Frank and Bobby. I had to shoot them to get us away."

"My god," I said. I thought it was bad in Heathrow.

"I'm sorry," Andy said, standing up. "I shouldn't have told you all that. I just had to tell someone."

He got up and left the room, tears running down his worn face. I stared after him, utterly speechless. I'd never seen a man who'd been to hell and back before.

[author's note: week 20]