The Spotted Dog had been derelict for as long as they could remember. Wooden slat windows, dotted metal doors, a security firm’s mobile number on the walls beside the silhouette logo of a man walking a dog. Everyone knew that was crap, especially the youngers. There was no security for the Spotted Dog. Dad said they were going to turn it into flats for the posh lot, or another supermarket even though there were two down the road. He and Danny went out every Saturday, knocking on doors and handing out leaflets, Dad talking about the old days when he met Mum in the beer garden and they’d stand on varied doorsteps for ages, telling that story and others until Danny got bored and cold and Dad would pull him close. Most houses had posters up saying ‘SAVE THE SPOTTED DOG’ because of them. It was a secret the adults pretended to keep to themselves, like their kids. Everyone knew it too. They couldn’t save anything, let alone an old pub.

He walked around the back, through what had been the car park, leaping knee-high weeds until he came to cracked cellar boards. None of the kids knew who’d made the opening; it was broken in generations ago, had always been that way. He checked his surroundings, slid into mildewed darkness, onto the waiting barstool they’d placed in the cellar so they could enter, then the concrete floor, mostly feeling his way to the stairs, using what little light the opening gave. And then there was nothing. That had scared him as an infant, but by now it was normal. He used his phone torch to find the stairs, climbing into what they always said must have been the pub, although nothing remained but a blank empty space, mattresses spotted with dark patches, red cushions smeared bare and shiny that probably belonged to long-forgotten stools or chairs. Painful-looking blisters hung above his head. Danny had seen them burst before, showering grey water on some unlucky kid. Forcing them to walk home with their arms held away from their sides like a zombie, sniffling and bedraggled, to face beats, or at least grounding.

The boy was hunched in a corner, eying him. A glint in his hand reflecting torchlight. Danny heard the youngers say Mo carried, although he’d never seen it himself so he’d forgotten. Sheet-lightning metal flashed. He turned off his phone.

‘It’s OK. It’s me. Danny Kearns, from 32. Simon’s my dad. He knows yours.’

He dug into the orange bag, fingers closing around the first thing he touched, freed it. An apple. He held it towards Mo. The boy’s eyes were bright, even in shadow. Danny stepped forward.

‘You’re hungry, right?’

Edging closer and closer until his shadow covered Mo’s. His dark eyes glittered like tarmac.

‘Take it. I got loads. And other stuff. It’s for you.’