Paul had given in to the itch in his neck. He was in an ecstasy of scratching. Eyes closed. Tearing at his skin. He stopped and looked at his fingers; they were covered in blood and pus. He licked them clean. He was very hungry. Separated from the other kids he was also separated from their food. He couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten, it was at least twenty-four hours ago. Maybe later, when it grew dark, he could sneak down into the car park and take a chicken. For now all he could do was watch the kids eat.

His former friends.

They were in the staff canteen at the top of the museum, completely unaware that he was outside, hidden behind a stone buttress, spying on them through the big sloping windows.

‘Look at them,’ came a voice in his ear. A voice he recognized. Harsh and greasy. ‘Like chicks feeding. Peck, peck, peck.’

‘I don’t understand it,’ said Paul. ‘Why are there so many of them? Why weren’t more of them killed by the sickos?’

‘I’ll tell you why,’ said Boney-M, and Paul looked round at the broken creature, as it flopped and twitched on the floor. ‘Because you are a useless arse-wipe.’

Paul turned back to the canteen, trying to make sense of it. How had his plan gone so badly wrong? And then he spotted someone he didn’t recognize. A boy with bright red hair. Small, clever-looking, with quick eyes. He was sitting with three other kids Paul didn’t recognize. And now more were coming in. Where had they all come from?

‘It’s not fair,’ he said. ‘There should have been less of them today, not more.’

‘Useless,’ said Boney-M and he nipped at Paul’s leg with his beak. Paul kicked him away and sat down out of sight. He clutched his head, trying to hold it together. It felt as if his brain was expanding, growing too big for his skull. It didn’t help that the sun was out, burning down on him, glancing sharp rays off the glass and metalwork and in through his eyes, making them water.

‘Baby,’ said Boney-M.

‘Shut up!’ Paul snapped. ‘Leave me alone.’

All morning the creature had followed him around, sneering at him, whingeing and moaning and putting him down.

‘I can’t leave you alone,’ said Boney-M, ‘because you can’t do anything by yourself. You need me.’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Yes, you do, yes, you do, yes, you do … because the brats are cleverer than you. Because you’re a bottom feeder, a mouth breather. You’ll have to work harder, move against them quicker, not let them breed and multiply, like chicks. Chick-chick-chick-chick-chick …’

‘How can there be more of them?’

‘They’ve made friends. They’re good at making friends. Unlike you. Nobody likes you, pisswater.’

‘Shut up!’