He tried to pull at the covers when his arms erupted in Braille goosebumps, but Michael wouldn’t let go. Eyes stinging, heavy, Danny heard something else outside his bedroom window, a louder version of the sound that had forced him awake. Rustles like the sliding, gentle shush of pulling his pyjama top over his head, or Mum’s hand stroking his hair at bedtime. Soothing. He closed his eyes, thought it would stop, but when it grew louder he opened them. Michael was mumbling next to him, telling some dream person to stop. He waited for his brother to quiet. When he’d been silent for a count of ten, Danny got out of bed, careful so he wouldn’t wake him. For that he had to roll sideways, knees bent, sitting up and gently pushing himself onto his feet. He crept towards the bedroom window.

Their curtains were thin, bleeding daylight. He peeled one back as far as his nose, left eye squinting against sun. The window looked onto their back garden and those of their neighbours, each rear space a rectangular slice of green, brown and grey. Fallen toys, extraterrestrial barbecue racks, lonely swings, flashes of pink and red bushes, rickety leaning sheds. And them. Scattered over grass, mud and concrete. Black figures moving sure as lice. For a moment he thought the gardens had become infested with those creatures of his terrifying dreams, produced by a searing itch that made his mother bring the shrunken comb and A4 paper, dark bodies falling from his hair, pattering onto the white sheet like rain, dying, legs writhing. He gasped at the sight of the black forms outside his window, believing his nightmares real, blinking horror, and saw they weren’t lice but ICO. Loads. Crawling through gardens. Leaning against warped, wind-blown fences. Lining the alleyway that ran like a spine between the garden rows. Gathered in a bunched fist by the gate opposite theirs, the one that led to Mr Sharmake’s garden. Mo’s.

He knew then, remembered the billboard. Dad’s red, bloated face, Uncle Rick’s clenched jaw. The spinning glass on the tiled floor like the stunted red hand of the kitchen clock, only faster. Much faster. He felt his heart throb, solid against his ribs, and he couldn’t breathe quietly without holding his mouth wide open.