He drove back as night grew. The show would be up late and the others would be wondering where he was but the boy was worth it. He’d even fixed the net connection as promised. If he couldn’t do that, neither the boy nor his mother would trust him to stick to his more important oath.

There were urgent jobs to attend to once they’d completed the get out. Let the others know there was a new team member. Book an extra room for the rest of the tour. Plot how long it would take from the isolated farmhouse to the following tour stop after they picked up the boy. Alask felt better than he had in years; nothing was too taxing. He could see the headlines, the revamped posters – Tibold the Great: Augmented Strong-Man – and hear the gasps of excitement, screams, brilliant delight reflected in thousands of eyes. He steered the car through darkening lanes thinking of Tibold’s strength, Reno’s tender eyes, of the next town.

SCARECROW

The winter days are growing short so this morning I wake up early, dress in simple clothes and sit on the front steps. The air is cloying and smells of far-away bonfires. The flats around me are empty now, most of them anyway, and I don’t worry about my neighbours. I light a cigarette, keeping an eye out for strangers. There aren’t many, but I watch anyway.

When my cigarette is done and the sun is high I push myself from the dew-damp steps, walk to the shops. At first they seem closed, which is unusual. I steel myself, taking quick looks over my shoulder and banging on the wood that covers the doors, the windows. The streets are bare. Black tar and white lines glisten. Silence makes me jittery; I just want to go. I bang harder. I know the risk I’m taking but none of us want to starve.

After a long time a slat of wood is removed. I can see an eye. It is black-ringed, tired. I gulp back what I really want to say, raise my voice.

‘Hi … It’s Nicole … From Iffley Road. Do you have eggs? Twelve?’

The eye blinks, disappears. One of the kids, I suppose. The adult Tsois know me well, although you never can be sure. Personally I think they’re crazy to let them answer my knocks, but that’s their business, I suppose. Maybe they’re scared. Maybe something’s happened. I stamp my feet on the ground, blow into my hands. My own breath dances before me. The eye returns and the kid pushes a brown paper bag through the hole in the slats. I swap it for six batteries, grasp the bag tight. No boxes. If they break, no breakfast.

‘Thanks … Uh … Is everything OK?’