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Dolly took a plastic bottle of mustard and squirted it into the woman's face. A bright yellow stream hit Mrs Haigh in the eyes.

Zack pulled Malcolm away from the woman. She sliced down, stabbing into Malcolm's chest.

I screamed.

Zack got Malcolm free. The knife came out of Malcolm.

Mrs Haigh slashed, scraping the knife down the arm of Zack's jacket. The blade scratched the leather but didn't cut through, then got snagged on a zip with a rasp that set my teeth on edge.

Mrs Haigh raised the knife again.

'Drop it,' said Zack, waving his flick-comb, pressing the stud.

Mrs Haigh threw down the knife before she realised Zack wasn't

coming at her with a switchblade. Dolly kicked the knife into a corner.

I grabbed Malcolm and started pressing around the tear in his slicker. He was shaking.

'She hurt Cowboy Gonk!'

I pulled out the toy. There was a knife-slit in the fabric, white stuffing bulging out of an eye.

Malcolm looked at his beloved gonk, lower lip going in and out, tears starting.

'Cowboy Gonk is fine, Malcolm,' I said, trying to head off a crying spell. 'It's easily fixed, easily. A few stitches and he'll be good as new.'

'Suze is right, Malc,' said Zack. 'Cowboy Gonk is on the mend. Listen to him.'

Malcolm's ears pricked up like a dog's.

'Ah'm a-fine, pardner,' said Zack, ventriloquising out of one side of his mouth. 'Sure as shootin' and a-rootin' tootin'. Now let's a-mosey out of this here saloon and hit the trail for Laredo.'

Malcolm laughed, astonished.

'That tears it,' Gillian announced. 'We're leaving.'

We started turning up collars, pulling down caps, winding scarves like bandages.

I hauled open the door, flinching at the icy blast, and held it as Zack and Dolly got Malcolm outside, then watched the Haighs as Gillian and John left. Mrs Haigh stared like a vulture frustrated of carrion.

'Don't go, child,' said the vicar, pleading. 'Pray with us.'

I felt awful inside. These people had been pushed into a box and reacted in a way no one would have expected. Just as John's father had.

'We'll be safe, Henry. We have a policeman with us.'

I left the restaurant and joined the others.

Visibility was down to nothing. The blizzard was, if anything, worse.

Zack found his motorbike in a drift, crushed by ice, wheels buckled. He siphoned petrol into a milk bottle and stuffed the neck with his Rupert scarf.

'Just in case,' he said.

It was so cold the cocktail turned into a Molotov sunrise, petrol decocting into its constituent ingredients, making different-coloured

layers.

'Which way?' asked Gillian.

For a moment, I didn't know. No recognisable landmarks were left.

But I remembered which side of the road the Wimpy Bar was on. I pointed forward, into the wind. We put our heads down and trudged.

Some people must have had the idea Gillian had about the school, and set fire to buildings to keep the Cold Knights away. The front window of the Green Shield Stamps Centre was blown out. The show goods on display were melted or blackened. The blaze hadn't lasted long enough to burn down the building or spread to the shops next door. Snowdrifts already piled up around the wreckage.

'Anyone want to loot a fridge?' asked Zack. 'It's normally fifty-eight books.'

No one was interested.

We were on foot and against the wind.

In normal conditions, even on an absolutely miserable day, it should have taken ten minutes to stroll from the Wimpy Bar to Totter's Lane. With time to stop off at the newsagent's, to buy a Bunty and some sweets from Malcolm's Mum. Today, it was a two hour forced march.

I checked the newsagent's. It was locked up.

'Your Mum must have stayed at home,' I told Malcolm.

Later –

After the newsagent's, we came to the Railway Bridge. A curtain of clear ice hung from it, entirely blocking the road. People were caught in the ice, like big insects in white amber. Giant faces on the ice surface slowly made mocking masks.

'We'll have to go up and cross the platform,' said Gillian.

'We haven't got tickets,'