‘This road’s closed,’ announced the first soldier sharply. He didn’t look as though he had a very charitable nature. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Taking my poor, sweet, orphaned, fatherless and ill child to his check-up. He has bad calluses on his legs, a bald patch and his poor orphaned heart, well, it’s—’

‘I get the point. Identification papers?’

I handed him the Pollyanna pebble. If he thought I was a war widow then all would be well. If he was expecting the worst or was even vaguely suspicious, all would be lost. I was lucky. The guardsman looked at the pebble as though it really were identification papers, turned it over and said:

‘Name?’

‘Mrs Jennifer Jones.’

‘Identification number?’

‘86231524.’

He nodded and passed the pebble back to me.

‘Okay, move along.’

I thanked him and started to walk off.

‘Wait!’ said the second soldier, and I held my breath.

He dug into his pocket and pulled out . . . a coin.

‘Here’s a groat for you. I fought in the Troll Wars and I lost some good friends. May I see the baby?’

Before I could say or do anything he looked into the pram at the Quarkbeast. I held my breath. The Quarkbeast stared up at him.

‘What’s his name?’

‘Quark?’ said the Quarkbeast, blinking nervously.

‘Sweet kid. Okay, Mrs Jones, move along.’

I walked on, my heart beating heavily and a cold sweat on my forehead.

‘Well,’ I heard the second soldier whisper to his colleague, ‘I’ve seen some ugly babies in my time but that little Quark Jones was uglier than all of them put together.’

The two officers turned away, and as soon as I was opposite the broken-in front door of the Dragonstation I jumped inside and ran to the Rolls-Royce. The Slayermobile whispered into life, I engaged first gear and floored the accelerator. With a splintering of wood I drove through the locked garage doors, and pushed the Imperial Guard’s armoured car out of the way. I pulled the wheel over and accelerated up the street, the spang of rifle fire bouncing off the heavy iron plating. At the end of the street was a barricade of cars, manned by a group of policemen whose puny weapons could not hope to damage the heavily armoured Slayermobile. They jumped out of the way as the vehicle tore through their cars, the sharp spikes ripping the bodywork as though it were tissue paper.