Achilleus was back to something like his old self. His ear was still heavily bandaged, but it didn’t seem to have become infected. He was still sore from his various cuts and bruises, though, and he figured that the best way to shake off the stiffness and take his mind off the pain was to get out there and do stuff. He’d been the first to volunteer for the expedition and anywhere Achilleus went Paddy came too. He was standing patiently next to Achilleus with the golf-bag full of spare weapons and Achilleus’ shield slung across his back. He’d polished it until it gleamed, and had sharpened Achilleus’ spear to a new point, the old one having been snapped off in the fight with Just John at the palace.

‘I made the mistake of over-sharpening it that time,’ Achilleus had explained to Paddy when he’d handed the spear over. ‘The tip wasn’t strong enough. It don’t got to be, like, needle-sharp, just enough to puncture skin without too much of a sweat.’

Achilleus had originally made the spear out of a steel pole, wrapping leather round the shaft to make a grip. It was short. Like Paddy said, it was good for stabbing, rather than slicing or throwing. Ollie had told him once that that was the way Roman legionaries used to fight, with a short spear called a pilum. And they’d conquered the world. He was very attached to his spear. As the whole thing was metal, he could theoretically keep sharpening it like a pencil whenever it got blunt. Although, of course, it would get shorter and shorter.

Ollie and three of his missile unit were coming with them. It was always useful to have fighters who could hit grown-ups from a distance. If you didn’t have to engage with them face-to-ugly-face they weren’t such a threat. Big Mick was in charge of another group of three fighters, and Blue was going to be their general. Lewis was staying behind with his squad, along with the rest of Blue’s people. Blue and Maxie wanted to make sure they didn’t empty the museum of all their good fighters, or Justin might just be tempted to lock them out.

They’d finished cleaning out the lower level last night, carting away the last of the rubbish and the dead grown-ups. Justin had positively identified the severed girl’s head as Stacey and they’d buried it that morning under a tree at the front of the museum. Of Paul Channing they’d found no sign and assumed he must have been eaten. It would be Maxie’s job to organize all the remaining kids in the museum into work parties to block up broken windows, seal doors and board up any openings they found.

Right now Maxie was standing up on the first-floor balcony watching the group assemble. Wishing they didn’t have to go.