The shell of the krik was rough and fibrous, glistening from the water. It was patterned, and not just one colour as it had looked from a distance; whorls of interlocking spirals in orange and white ran up the whole of the exoskeleton, decorating it with intricate markings that had a strange beauty. But the shell looped round and around its body, protecting that hidden flesh inside. Every so often there were tiny gaps, mysterious shadows, where the darkness of the body could maybe be seen if you could get close, but from here they just seemed to offer hints of danger: strange, concealed openings.

The legs and pincers moved constantly, independently of each other, searching and scratching at the tarmac, the garden walls, the air. Looking for something to grab. Almost too perfect in their sharp, smooth covering – just hardness and armour – they were ready to spike, maim, rip, hurt.

I turned away to take a breath and then looked back at the water. A boat with eight people on it came into view. It was the sailing boat we’d used in our escape from the Jellyfish. The passengers were battling to get the sail up, whilst Stinky and one other were using rough planks of wood as oars. They were not going fast, and there were three large kriks in their wake. Stinky was pausing in his rowing to bat at the kriks when they got too close.

‘There’s three kriks, at least,’ I said. ‘Eight people are safe.’

‘Are they going to come and help us?’ said Kate.

‘No. I don’t think so.’

Before the boat reached the other side of my curtain gap, they’d got the sail up, and were out of range of the kriks. It looked like they were aiming to travel round to the other side of the cliffs. There had been boats there too, I remembered. And the river. They’d probably be somewhere nice in time for lunch. A lovely lunch, without us.

I pulled back again and took another breath. There were others still left on the shore somewhere. Hopefully somewhere.

At the edge of that curtain gap there was movement again, this time accompanied by shouts. Another, slower boat was edging its way past. This one didn’t have a sail, and was lower in the water. Soldier John and Old Albert were launching themselves along by pushing poles into the sea bed, and someone else was frantically trying to propel them faster by scooping at the water with what looked like a plastic box.

Soldier John was shouting something frantically. He was shouting it in our direction, but I couldn’t hear what it was. He held up six fingers.