It had started to rain; a light drizzle fell on Paul’s back. He watched as the doors were closed, and he couldn’t see the two figures any more. They were down there, though, and all he had to do was slip into the building and keep his knife handy.

Boney-M poked him in the ribs and Paul swore at him, turned to swat him away … and all he saw was a jutting piece of stonework.

He turned his face up to the sky and let the rain fall on his face, opening his mouth wide to try to get some precious water inside him. His blood fizzed and simmered in his veins, carrying the itch around his body. The maddening itch that made it hard to think straight. He put his hand to the wound in his neck and scratched it. It was hot and sore, but felt slightly better than it had done. Maybe he was healing at last.

He remembered when it had happened. That had been a bad day. When he’d got too close to one of the captive sickos on the lorry in the yard, the ones that Einstein kept for his experiments. The sicko they called Simon Foul. That had been their joke – James, the guy who used to help him look after them, had named them after the original X-Factor judges. Simon Foul, Louis Corpse and Cheryl Ghoul. Simon had been a biter. Not too bad at first, but over the weeks he’d got worse and worse.

Paul was usually OK around them. They were used to him and he was used to them. They never tried to attack him, but he’d relaxed too much, forgotten just how dangerous they were, got careless, and one afternoon … He remembered very clearly the tearing pain as Simon dug his teeth into his neck. The feeling of warmth as the blood poured down his neck. Paul had managed to pull away before any real damage was done. He’d kicked Simon and swore and spat at him and after that he’d kept him muzzled like a vicious dog, but it was too late. His skin had been broken. Simon’s germs had been injected into his blood. He didn’t tell anyone, he’d been too embarrassed, ashamed. Didn’t want anyone to know how stupid he’d been.

Besides, what could anyone do? They played at being doctors, and scientists, when they were just kids, clueless. About as much use as doctors in the Middle Ages with their leeches and poultices and bleedings.

He’d stolen some antibiotics and some painkillers from the labs. Far as he could tell they hadn’t made much difference. The wound had still got infected. Still hurt like hell.