Marcus stared at him for a moment or two. The man visibly quailed and launched into an incoherent explanation, but Marcus had already turned away, towards Ollie who had in the meanwhile marched his prisoner over to where they were standing.

‘All still here? All right, then. Let’s decide what to do about this fine fellow I found spying on us.’

‘No I wasn’t! I swear! I was just sittin’ there! I didn’t hear nothing!’ whined his captive.

‘I know this guy,’ said one of the men who had appeared from the pipes along with Marcus. ‘He’s just a junkie. I’ve seen him around, hanging here, living off what he can find. He’s harmless, he is.’

‘Perhaps that’s so,’ said Ollie. ‘but I still want to know what he heard. And what else he’s been hearing, just sitting, as he puts it, in that little hole of his.’

‘Nothing!’ squealed the bum. ‘You listen to that guy! I’m harmless, I am! Honest!’

He was thin, even thinner than Marcus, clad in a pair of dirty grey trousers, frayed at the edges and split at the seams, and a long green overcoat that reached all the way down to his knees. Mismatched slippers adorned his feet—one a faded blue, the other bright neon pink. But even amidst this extraordinary ensemble, it was his shirt that stood out. It was of good quality, certainly much better than his other clothes and mottled all over with large stains that appeared to be old dried blood. Albert frowned, wondering why the shirt seemed vaguely familiar. Then with a shock, he realized it was his own shirt, the one he had discarded in this very lot a day ago, when the child Felix had been blown up all over him.

The man was still shouting. ‘Lemme go! I didn’t hear a thing!’

‘I didn’t hear a thing,’ he repeated, leaning against his captor even while he struggled, his legs seeming almost flaccid. If he did succeed in breaking free, he would probably collapse where he stood.

Ollie released him, and he swayed but kept his footing, looking fearfully at them as they surrounded him. He was a poster child for ugliness. By the looks of it, he hadn’t seen a razor, ever. His mouth sagged at the edges; his misshapen, bulbous nose was running; his small, squinty eyes were glazed over, the pupils dilated to infinitesimal dots; and he smelt almost as bad as a stink signal. He was the single most unpleasant-looking individual Albert had ever seen. And he was crying, which made him look even worse.

‘Please lemme go! I swear I won’t tell anyone! And I didn’t see anyone and I swear if I do I won’t tell ’em nothing, really and I—’

‘Easy there, man!’ said Ollie. ‘What were you doing?’

‘Nothing! I was just sitting there, and—’

‘Is that so?’