The grass, dappled by leaf shadows, gave an irresistible illusion of coolness. He plucked at his long-sleeved shirt, which was made of cheap synthetic material. Thelma had bought it for him as he’d come to her house with so little clothing. Even with the sleeves rolled up, it was like being imprisoned inside a metal bin. He went into the dark a little way and had a long drink from a bubbler, then wet his hanky. Thelma supplied him with a fussily ironed handkerchief each morning, not believing in tissues, which she said were a wicked waste of money. Seymour folded the wet hanky across his forehead, and as the park was empty, sat on a bench under a trellis. It was a mistake.

A bunch of rowdy kids, smug with assumed toughness, suddenly came racketing in from the shopping-centre entrance. They were shoving each other about and making a lot of noise with skateboards, but spotted Seymour at once. He got up nervously and tried to edge past to the safety of the main road, for he was a target, and they knew it as well as he did.

‘Hey you, new kid round here, where’d ya score that shirt, off your grandpop?’ someone sniggered.

Seymour didn’t say anything. He pressed back against the bole of the tree, feeling the bark pattern imprint itself through his clothing, trying to make himself as secret as a lizard. But they didn’t give up, they formed a closer semi-circle.

‘Hey you, no spikka da English or something?’

Seymour kept his eyes on the ground, on the restless feet and little skateboard wheels. The wheels jiggled backwards and forwards, holding cached, impatient power, biding time. A hand darted out and grabbed at his handkerchief and someone yelled, ‘Geeze, a snot rag! Maybe he’s a little midget grandpa. Only grandpops carry hankies…’

He peeled himself away from the tree, plunged through an opening in the circle of feet, and scuttled back to the comparative safety of the shops. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the kids didn’t intend to leave it at that. They’d followed, laughing and calling out after him, their day made. Heart thumping, he shot across the road with the green light, collecting a furious, ‘Watch where you’re going!’ from a woman with a shopping jeep. His racing feet whisked him past blurred images of embroidery wool, health food, I Am The Word, chrome and leather, golden oranges, purple grapes—and blessedly to the alleyway opening. He dived into its dark tunnel, but didn’t stop.