And here she was. Up at the counter with her mum and her nan. The woman who ran the shop was struggling to open a jar, but it wouldn’t budge. She was sweating, grunting. Maxie could see the pear drops inside, could smell them; the smell was so strong it was overpowering. They rattled and tumbled around in there, pink and yellow, frosted and glittering with sugar …

She wanted those pear drops so badly. Open it, open the jar, you silly old witch.

And then the top turned, spinning round really fast, and it came off and the shopkeeper held the jar out to her …

But there was something wrong. The sweets stank. Of something rotten. Maxie looked in the jar. There weren’t any sweets in there, just a pile of rotting meat, bits of body, heart and lungs and intestines, mouldy and putrefying, and over it …

The smell of pear drops.

Nan. Wales. Sweets.

Only she wasn’t in Wales, was she? She couldn’t be. Nan was dead. Her mum was dead. Her whole family was dead. It was just a dream. Sod it. She’d been enjoying it. A nice trip to Wales. Her brain was teasing her, playing tricks. And that final nasty trick with the jar. Full of rotting meat. What was that all about?

And that smell …

It wasn’t in her dream. She wasn’t imagining it. It was too strong. Too real. Her sleeping mind was struggling to make sense of it. This foul mix of pear drops and rotten meat.

Only one thing smelt like that.

Grown-ups.

She had to wake up. There was danger. She had to be ready.

She forced her eyes open, gave a little shudder and for a moment sat there, suspended between awake and asleep, asleep and awake …

Now she couldn’t tell if she was dreaming still. The great Gothic bulk of the museum rising above her, brick upon brick, falling away to shadows, a flickering light from the candle at her feet.

That was real.

Yeah …

Cameron sat there, slumped in his seat, dribbling, and someone was standing over him. Someone tall. Dressed in black. Shoulders hunched. Up around his ears. Elbows tucked into his sides. Holding himself as if he was in pain. Swaying slightly, moving his head with little jerky movements, like a lizard.

Long, spindly arms and legs. Very thin.

A spider. That’s what Ella had said. A spider walking in the museum at night. He had a blade in his hand, its sharp edge glinting in the candlelight.

Maxie couldn’t move, like she was still in the dream, frozen, couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, couldn’t save Cameron.

Why did a boy smell of pear drops and rotting meat?

Her tongue felt too big for her mouth.

But she had to do something.