He threw the paper in front of Nat, and the photo of Woody glared up at him from the North Somerset Reveille.

“You laughed about that this morning,” said Nat bitterly.

Mick narrowed his eyes. “That was before this business with Tom Davis’s deer,” he said.

Nat held out his blood-streaked hands. “This is Woody’s blood,” he said. “I tried to get the pellets out.”

Mick frowned and marched outside. Two minutes later, he came back into the kitchen, his face white with anger.

“I don’t blame you for trying to save Woody,” he said. “But telling lies isn’t going to help, Nat. There are no injuries to that dog’s chest.”

“Yes, that’s right,” said Nat, his face flushed. “The wounds have healed already.”

Everyone looked at Nat in bewilderment.

“I need to tell you something about Woody,” he said breathlessly. “He’s not a dog at all, he’s a Wolven: a supernatural being who can change shape.”

Mick stared at his grandson, shaking his head. “A what? No, he can’t be … he’s not like …”

“That’s enough,” interrupted Jude. “Even if you’re telling the truth about the deer, why make up stories? What’s wrong with you?”

But Nat was staring at Apple. There was something in her eyes. Something like belief?

“Nan?” implored Nat. “You believe me, don’t you? The tattoo … it all makes sense. Woody was part of an experiment to create a new breed of shape-shifting fighting machines —”

“Stop.” Jude’s face was white. “Just stop this crazy talk now.” Nat had never seen his mum so upset.

“Oh, forget it,” he said, near to tears, and ran out of the kitchen.

He didn’t waste a second. He raced upstairs, put a few things into his battered rucksack, tiptoed down to the living room, and sneaked out the French doors.

Just minutes later, two policemen, one of them Bill Beechgood, arrived at the front door. Grim-faced, Mick let them in.

“You know why we’re here, Mick?” asked Sergeant Beechgood, removing his helmet.

Mick nodded. “Bill, it could still be a case of mistaken identity.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” said the younger policeman. “We have to take the dog away.”

“Nat has told us he’s innocent,” protested Jude. “I was dubious at first, but Woody is the gentlest dog….”

“Come on now, Jude,” chided Sergeant Beechgood. “You’ve only got to look at this week’s Reveille to know that’s not strictly true. If he’s innocent like you say, there are tests that can be done to prove it either way.”

Something large and black pulled up outside 11 Camellia Lane. It blocked out the evening sunshine from the kitchen, spraying gravel all over Apple’s luminous green lawn. It was, thought Apple as she looked out the window, the type of black monstrosity driven solely by government officials.