“Ah,” said the tiny voice. “I hear where you’re coming from. Genie would be one way of putting it.”

“So you’ll grant me three wishes?” Will was warming to the idea.

“I’ll certainly give it my best shot.”

Will stooped and gingerly took up the box. He put it once more to his ear. “You promise?” he said.

“No probs, chief. I’ll promise you anything you like.”

“So how do I open the box?”

“Just give the lid a twist, it’s a screw-on, you schmuck.”

Will stared at the box. “What did you call me?” he asked.

“Nothing chief. I said, just give the lid a twist. It’s a screw-on. Too stuck.”

“I’m sure that’s not what you said.”

“Well, please yourself, chief. If you have no use for three wishes. Like I don’t think!”

“All right. Hold on.” Will pondered, as one would in such a situation; a situation, which it has to be admitted, probably wouldn’t come up in the normal course of one’s lifetime more than, maybe, the number of times one might find oneself called on to solve the case of Jack the Ripper. There could be danger in this box. Something horrible might lurk within. Opening this box would be risky business.

It would be a big risk.

Will gave the lid of the box a twist, and it fell aside, to reveal—

“A sprout,” said Will, in considerable amazement. “You’re a sprout.”

“Of course I’m a sprout,” said Barry. “You were expecting, perhaps, a genie!”

15

“A sprout.” Will lifted the sprout from its box and cradled it on the palm of his hand. “A talking sprout.”

“I think we’ve established that, chief,” said the talking sprout.

“But, a sprout,” Will had genuine awe in his voice. “A talking sprout.”

“Yes, yes, chief. Let’s not make a big thing out of it.”

“But, I mean, you’re a sprout. And you can talk.”

“Oh dear, oh dear,” said Barry the talking sprout. “Did we suck too many lead soldiers when we were a lad?”

“What?” went Will.

“Or perhaps you were dropped at birth, that would always do it.”

“What are you saying?” Will’s fingers tightened on the sprout.

“Oooh!” went Barry. “Don’t do that, please, no.”

Will’s grip slackened, slightly.

“I’m trying to remain cool, calm and collected here,” Will told the sprout. “I’m sure that I’m not hallucinating you.”

“He never mentioned me, did he?”

“Who?” asked Will.

“My master. Hugo Rune.”

“No,” said Will. “He never did.”

“Typical,” said Barry. “Please stop with the squeezing, will you?”

Will released his fingers. He peered at the little green spheroid and shook his befuddled head. “I’m talking to a sprout,” he said. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You could say, ‘pleased to meet you, Barry’ and then, in about ten minutes time, you could say, ‘thank you very much for saving my life’.”

“What?” Will went.

“No, chief, not what. ‘Pleased to meet you’.”

“No,” said Will. “About saving my life.”

“A thank-you will suffice, so get a move on, then.”

“What?” went Will once again.

“Monosyllabic,” said Barry. “The lad is a numbskull.”

“What did you say?”

“What I’m saying, chief, is that big trouble is heading your way, so if you know what’s good for you, you’ll scoop up everything that’s worth taking from Rune’s trunk in your mouldy-looking bed blanket and have it away on your toes through the window.”

“What?” went Will, once again.

“Trouble,” said Barry. “Big trouble. On its way now. I know these things. Trust me, I’m a sprout.”

“Right,” said Will. “Right.”

“Then get a move on.”

“Right,” said Will.

“I really mean it,” said Barry. “It’s on its way up here.”

Will’s gaze turned towards the door. From beyond it came sounds of something being smashed and heavy footfalls crunching on the rickety stairs. And Will could smell a horrible smell issuing through the crack beneath the door. A horrible smell that he knew all too well, so to speak.

“Right,” said Will once again and he thrust Barry back into his box and Barry’s box into his pocket. Then he dragged the steamer trunk across the floor and rammed it up against the door. Rune’s jewellery was already on the bed, so Will snatched up the magic books and tossed them onto the blanket. He considered the clothes, but they were of no use to him. And what of his own belongings?

Something struck the door a heavy blow.

“William Starling,” called a voice, a deeply-timbred voice with a rich, Germanic accent.

“Oh no,” went Will, and he gathered up the blanket, hastily knotted its corners, snatched up Rune’s cane and fled to the window.

Further blows rained upon the door. Wood splintered, hinges gave. Will struggled to open the sash but it was jammed shut by years of accumulated grime. Will might have tried the crowbar, but there just wasn’t time, so he took as many steps back as he could within the tiny room, rushed forward and dived through the unopened window – which was three storeys up.

Now it only happens in movies, because movies are movies and real life is something else entirely. In movies, if the hero dives out of the window, then there is always something soft below to cushion his fall: an awning, a pile of cardboard boxes, a passing wagon loaded with hay, an open-topped truck delivering mattresses; or a stunt mat.

But real life is something else entirely.

In real life there would be a row of spiked railings, a concrete area strewn with broken glass, a pit full of alligators, or, as happens on most occasions, the usual gang of cannibal bikers, or a flock of blood-crazed rabid chickens.

Will smashed through the window and plunged three floors to his almost inevitable doom. The awning slowed his descent. He ripped through that, however; struck the pile of cardboard boxes,[16] bounced from these onto the passing hay-filled wagon, slid from that onto the open-topped truck that was delivering mattresses and from there toppled down to the stunt mat that someone had dumped upon the pavement.

“Phew,” went Will, as he rose unscathed to his feet – to be promptly set upon by a flock of blood-crazed rabid chickens.

“Wah!” went Will as he fought himself free and took to his heels up the street.

Eight minutes later Will sat, all sweaty and breathless in a tavern called the Scurvy Stump and Lettuce. It was a Thames dockside tavern, the haunt of bargees and lightermen, pirates and ne’er-do-wells, smugglers and brigands, and gatherers of the pure. The tavern reeked of ship’s tar and tallow, shag smoke and brandy, bad breath and armpits, and unwashed bottoms too. It echoed with the coarse discourse of burly sea-faring types, and the talk was all of yardarms and spinnakers, top sheets and anchor chains. And of bilges and brigs, and the new electric warships that the Royal Navy had upon trials, whores and whorings, and how well Brentford might fare in the FA Cup.

A one-eyed, one-legged barlord lorded it behind the bar, and a lady in a straw hat and Salvation Army uniform, moved about amongst the nautical clientele selling copies of the War Cry. Will, looking somewhat out of place in his funereal costume, sat in as dark a corner as he could squeeze himself into, but one that was near to the door. The blanket bag was between his feet, Rune’s cane at his elbow, a mug of grog before him on a stained and rugged table, and a pink box was held between his trembling hands.

Will twisted open the lid and peered in at the recumbent sprout whose name was Barry.

“Thank you very much for saving my life,” Will whispered.

“You’ll have to speak up a bit, chief,” chirped Barry. “A bit of a din in this pub, don’cha know.”