I thought about Mellissa the bee woman, and how Zoe’s eyes had changed. Back in the nineteenth century Charles Kingsley had written of fae and demi-fae and also of people that had been ‘touched’ by the fae – so that they themselves seem strange even to themselves. He seemed to think such people lurked under every hedgerow and I’d wondered whether back then there had been way more activity than in my time. Or it could have just been Kingsley’s overactive imagination. Dr Walid often complains that, despite the order being founded by Isaac Newton, for most of the early wizards the Baconian method was something that happened to other people.

‘You believe me?’ asked Zoe. ‘You believe I met aliens?’

‘I believe you met something,’ I said, and gave her one of Dr Walid’s cards. He makes me carry them around for just this purpose.

‘I’m going to ask a friend of mine to contact you,’ I said, as Zoe gave the card a dubious look. ‘He’ll be interested in why your eyes changed colour. He’ll want you to come down to London for a chat.’

And an MRI, I thought, and blood tests, DNA swabs and anything else he can think of. Although, judging by Zoe’s expression, she was thinking a lot worse.

‘I can come with you, if you’ll feel more comfortable,’ I said.

‘Why me?’ she asked.

Does she want to be a special snowflake or an ordinary person? I wondered. And compromised.

‘You’ve come across some weird shit,’ I said. ‘I’m not going to lie to you and say it’s an everyday thing. But it has happened to a few others – we can help.’

‘Okay,’ she said. And then almost eagerly asked, ‘When do you think he’ll be in touch?’

‘You need to call him,’ I said, and tapped the card in her fingers. ‘This is about you, not us.’

Pokehouse Wood, I thought as I walked back to the Asbo. It all keeps coming back to Pokehouse Wood. I paused by the car to check my notebook. I’d been right, 2002 was listed as the last time before this year that the wood had been clear-felled. The time before that, 1970, had been the same year as the ghostly lollipop lady on the Roman Road nearby. I knew where the first set of detectors was getting planted early tomorrow morning.

I called Beverley, who answered with her mouth full.

‘I’m having supper with Dominic’s mum,’ she said.

I could hear cutlery clinking in the background and the sound of the TV being ignored.

I told her I was on my way back, but she said that Joanne Marstowe had popped round and asked if I could come see them. I asked why Joanne hadn’t rung me directly.

‘She said she didn’t trust her phone,’ said Beverley.

‘Did she say why?’