The smallest one of the group was a middle-aged man who stood very still and didn’t join in with the whispering. He looked like an accountant who’d wandered out of the office one day and had accidentally joined a biker gang. The woman beside him wore battered leather and had short spiky hair. She was pretty, in a sinister sort of way, but she didn’t have a very nice laugh. It carried through the quiet building, unnerving all who heard it. The librarians, usually so strict about things like that, pretended not to notice.

The final member of the gang seemed to be the leader. He was lean and his arms looked strong. He had tattoos curling down from beneath his T-shirt. His jeans were black and his boots were scuffed. He had dark hair that hung over his brow. The big man and the woman would whisper to him and he’d nod. He never stopped looking around, though. Once or twice he almost caught Ryan’s eye.

Ryan sat back in his chair, exited his email account on the computer. No emails. As usual. No one ever sent him emails. Not even spam. Maybe if he made more friends, like his mother was always saying, maybe then he’d at least be sent some junk every once in a while. Fifteen years old and no friends. It was kind of sad, when he thought about it. He didn’t think about it much.

He got up, walked through the Children’s section, running his fingers along the spines of the books he passed. He found himself in History and picked a book at random. Something about the Second World War. He didn’t care. He was just here to waste time, after all – waste time and build up the courage to run away.

It wasn’t his mother’s fault. It wasn’t even his new stepdad’s fault. Ryan didn’t have a problem with either of them. He just missed his father so much, and every moment spent living in that house reminded him that his father was dead and gone and never coming back, and Ryan didn’t want to live like that any more. So he was going to run away to… somewhere. Somewhere else. Just for a little while. Just to get away.

He put the book back and went to take another one, but something fell from the shelf. He saw a flash of silver – what looked like a clasp, or a brooch – and without thinking he reached out and caught it, closed his fingers round it tight. It was cold to the touch, but immediately turned hot. Pain lanced up his arm and he cried out. He opened his hand to drop it, but the only thing he was holding was silver dust. The clasp, whatever it was, had crumbled away in his grip.