But Mick wasn’t listening. They could stay here if they wanted. He couldn’t stand it any longer, being cooped up in here, like the waiting room for something horrible. He had to do something. Get out there. Kill a cat if that was what it took. And while he was out there it wouldn’t do any harm to check what was going on. If there was an army of grown-ups waiting for them, Blue would want to be warned. Jake, Kamahl and Brandon might look up to Mick, but Mick looked up to Blue. Blue had got them through everything. He was a good leader. He was Mick’s best friend.

Mick grabbed a spear and tugged the doors open, scattering the cats that were clawing at it. They squealed and screeched, regrouped and foamed about his ankles like a living carpet. He swiped at them and they parted, dodging out of the way, and then joining up into a solid mass again.

He cursed and started to chase them. Threw his spear at a big, one-eyed, mangy freak and missed by a mile. Went to pick his spear up. He turned back. Jake, Brandon and Kamahl were staring at him through the windows. Laughing and shouting. Though he couldn’t hear anything. That made him even angrier. He was determined to catch the big cat now. He ran after it, trying to separate it from the others. Swiping with his spear, kicking, yelling a string of harsh swear words.

Every time he looked back his three friends were still laughing and enjoying the show.

He chased the pack of cats along the building to where the floor-to-ceiling glass wall curved round the corner, Brandon, Kamahl and Jake following him all the way.

Mick yelped and hopped as a hot, sharp pain stabbed into his Achilles tendon. He looked down – one of the cats had bitten him. Others were scratching at his trouser legs.

Bastards. He swung his spear. Connected with a cat and sent it flying, only for it to land on its feet and come back at him. And there was One-Eye, hissing at him, jaws wide.

He chucked the spear, saw it embed itself in the ground, went into a crouch, arms flailing, hands grasping. The cats were mewling and screaming at him, like little children.

He had One-Eye cornered.

‘Here, pussy, pussy … Bastard pussy …’

Threw out his hands. Lunged …

Got it! He had One-Eye by the loose skin on the back of its neck. He held it up like a trophy as it wriggled in his grasp, paws scrabbling at the air, legs kicking. He showed it to his three spectators, a look of triumph on his face. They were still laughing, but cheering now as well, clapping.