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We had to link arms and wade through drifts to cross the pavement. Gillian put her shoulder to the doors, but John and me had to help her push them open. We tumbled into the restaurant.

The sudden absence of snowblast and din was a shock.

My tingling turned to a pricking, then the beginnings of a burning. I was worried that within minutes my face would be hanging off in red ribbons.

I thought we'd got through most of the day and that it was near nightfall, but by my watch it was only just after twelve.

'Children,' said a man as we came in, alarmed.

'There's no room here,' said another voice. 'This is our place. It's good here. There's food.'

'Shut the door after you,' said the first person. 'Were you born in a stable?'

All three of us had to push to get the door closed against the blowing, drifting snow. No one came forward to help.

The café was gloomy, with no lights on, the big front windows white with drifted snow. My eyes got used to it.

Half a dozen people huddled by the counter.

'Susan, Susan,' said a tiny voice.

A small person dashed up to me and threw arms around my neck, pressing damp kisses to my face. I weaved a little, but didn't fall over.

It was Malcolm.

'I got lost, Susan,' he said. 'On the way to school.'

I hugged and kissed him. I hugged and kissed Cowboy Gonk too. I realised I was crying.

I hadn't dared think about what had happened to Malcolm.

'Your face is red,' he said.

'Thank you very much,' I replied, trying to sound indignant.

He padded the melted snow and tears off my cheeks with a paper towel. I wondered again what I looked like and decided I didn't want to know. As Malcolm cleaned my face, I started to get feeling back in my skin.

'It's Forehead's boyfriend,' said Gillian. I didn't mind being teased.

I put Malcolm down. I wiped ice-chunks out of my hair with a wet sleeve.

'The icicles hurt,' said Malcolm. 'I got scratched, see.'

He had red lines on his wrists. Not deep, but nasty-looking.

'But I was brave.'

'I'm sure you were, Malcolm,' I said. 'Your Mum will be proud of you.'

Suddenly, I was worried about Malcolm's mother. When — if ever — this was over, there'd be a butcher's bill to pay, a long list of casualties.

I held on to Malcolm as hard as he held on to Cowboy Gonk.

'I know these girls, Henry,' said the woman who thought there was no room for us. 'A thoroughly bad lot. Remember, I told you about them on Saturday night. Painting themselves, at their age.'

It took me a moment to recognise the stout woman, who wore a furcollared coat and mauve gloves. She was Mrs Haigh from the Youth Club, and the tweedy man with her was her husband. The vicar's white hair was an uncombed nest around a red egg of bald scalp. One lens of his glasses was cracked across.

'I know them too,' said another of the group. 'From the Pump.'

It was Zack, from the Ton-Up Boys.

The whole of last Saturday was playing itself back.

Zack still wore his black leather jacket and motorcycle gauntlets, but seemed younger today, less threatening. And he was on his own.

'Oh it's you,' groaned Gillian. 'Talk about bad pennies.'

'If I was picking angels to emerge from the snow,' he said to Gillian, 'I'd have chosen Brigitte Bardot over you.'

'Sarcasm is the lowest form of comedy, Flash.'

'You've obviously never seen a Norman Wisdom flick.'

It struck me that Zack and Gillian liked each other. Even in this blizzard, they had time to feel something apart from fear.

There were new faces: a waitress in Wimpy uniform, with a blonde beehive hairdo, and a policeman, with his arm in a makeshift sling and his helmet missing.

The Haighs seemed to be in charge.

Everyone had obviously suffered through Adventures –which had changed them and the way they felt about the world. Or maybe just gave them an excuse for acting the way they had always wanted to.

'Constable,' ordered Mrs Haigh. 'Throw this shower out on their ears.'

The policeman gave no sign that he'd heard her. His eyes were empty. I

recognised the symptoms