‘I’m already there,’ said Nick, and he chuckled, so sure was he of success. ‘Didn’t you know I was Satan, his-self? Old Nick. That’s me. And you’re just one more sinner – or should I say “dinner”?’

Sam swore at him, using all the dirty words he’d ever heard, and some he’d made up. Nick just laughed louder.

Sam scrambled under a van and for a moment felt safe, until he realized he was trapped now.

Idiot.

He should have run.

The ground here was oily and he was soon black with filth. He saw Nick’s lower legs as he stalked around the van, banging on the sides and calling out in a high-pitched voice.

‘Here, piggy-piggy-piggy, come to Nick.’ Then he stopped and ducked down. Sam saw his grinning face appear below the edge of the van. He reached out a hand for Sam who just managed to slither back from it. But it was a bluff. Nick quickly dodged round the van and made another grab for him. As Sam tried to shift again his shirt caught on something and he was stuck. Then he felt Nick’s hand take hold of him and he was dragged out, kicking and yelling.

Sam looked for The Kid and saw him struggling groggily to his feet over by the statue. He then bent double and vomited. Nick tucked Sam under his arm, clamping him tight, and strode back over to The Kid. He aimed a kick at his backside and pitched him into the plinth.

The Kid wasn’t going to be any help.

Nick set Sam down and held him upright with one hand. He raised his other hand above his head. The sun came out from behind a cloud and shone on to the blade, the sharpened edge glinting like liquid fire.

‘I’m going to cut your little pig’s head off, piggy-winkle,’ Nick said with relish.

He paused. Licked his dry lips. He didn’t want to rush this.

This boy had caused him a lot of trouble. He wanted to see the fear and pain in his eyes before he finished it. He wanted the brat to know full well what was about to happen to him. Let him see the knife. Let him anticipate what it would feel like when he brought it slashing down. How it would slice clean through the soft flesh of his throat, through the sinews, the windpipe, even through his spine. Such a thin thing. Like a chicken neck.

The boy’s eyes were satisfyingly wide. There was a look of horror in them that pleased Nick. They were fixed on his knife, as they should be.

No. Wait a second. Something was wrong. The boy wasn’t looking at the knife at all. He was looking at something else. His eyes had flicked down and appeared to be looking at Nick’s hand.

Nick frowned and looked up.

A rash of spots was spreading across his skin, already one or two had swollen into fat blisters. His throat went tight. He could do nothing but stare, mesmerized.

He should never have come out into the sunlight.

Sam couldn’t tear his eyes away, either. It was like watching a piece of food in a microwave. Nick seemed to be cooking in front of him. Another crop of blisters and boils blossomed from the knuckles, as his fingers swelled up like bloated slugs, the nails turning black, and getting lost in cushions of pulpy flesh. One finger split open and pus oozed out of it.

Nick moaned. The knife was wobbling in his grip, his puffed-up hand no longer able to keep hold of it. He dropped it and it fell to the pavement with a clatter.

‘Look what you’ve done,’ he said in a strangled voice and Sam looked at his face. The skin there was erupting, too. Pearly boils with yellow heads were spreading from one ear across his cheek. His lips were growing fat, like sausages in a frying pan, the skin tightening then bursting, so that bright pink flesh bulged out of them.

It was as if all the evil inside Nick was erupting, forcing its way out of his body. Two lines of boils pushed out from behind his lower eyelids, peeling them back and down. They began to pop one by one, leaking blood and pus down his face. His eyes were swelling, too, the blood vessels in them showing dark red. They bulged out of his face. Sam could imagine that someone had stuck a bicycle pump in Nick’s ear and was inflating his whole head.

Then Sam had to look away as the eyes burst.

Nick let go of Sam and put his hands up to cover the wounds. He opened his mouth wide to scream, but Sam saw that it was filled with swellings and lumps and ulcers, his tongue a fat warty toad-thing, forcing its way out from between his teeth. His throat was completely blocked, so that he could neither breathe nor speak.

He no longer looked human. His whole body was bulging and writhing. He dropped to his knees. Blind. His hands groping the air. They looked like two udders and were still filling with liquid so that in a few moments the fingers had all but disappeared, the blackened stubs of the fingernails all that remained.

Sam saw the knife lying on the ground and picked it up, ignoring the stickiness on the handle. He felt almost sorry for the thing that had once been Nick. He wondered if he should put him out of his misery. But before he could bring himself to do anything Nick’s skin split and he seemed to disintegrate completely. He collapsed to the pavement, a mass of putrefying, liquefying flesh and steaming entrails that bubbled and hissed in the sunlight.

Sam retched, and then felt The Kid’s hand on his arm.

He sang a little ditty.

‘TV highlight of the week…’

‘What happened to him?’ said Sam.

‘Blame it on the sunshine. That’s why Mrs Spiderlady wouldn’t come out. She’s going to be so angered, but what can she do about it? Now let’s get gone from here.’

‘Shouldn’t we go back for Rhiannon?’ said Sam.

‘Can’t,’ said The Kid. ‘Look…’

He nodded to where a group of grown-ups was lumbering along the road towards them.

‘We need to get out of here sharpish, skipper. Poor girl’s probably dead as a dormouse already. Just thank her in your prayers.’

‘I don’t pray,’ said Sam. ‘I don’t believe in God.’

‘Well, somebody up there’s looking after you, titch. Now let’s motor.’

They ran off down the road, hand in hand, Sam glad of the human contact.

51

They arrived at sunset. Carl, the pirate, had brought ten of the meanest, toughest-looking squatters with him, plus a couple of smaller kids. Wiry little bruisers with even more attitude than their larger mates. They were escorted to the Throne Room and came in intending to be unimpressed, to play it cool, to show the stone face, but now they were all standing there with eyes wide, mouths hanging open.

‘Oh, my days,’ said Carl. ‘This is unreal.’

Everything about the scene was unreal. The decrepit Royal Family were slumped in their thrones, drooling. Just John was standing to one side, his hands tied behind his back, his feet loosely roped together, so that he could walk but not run. There was a wad of cotton wool taped across his nose and his eyes were ringed with purple bruising. He looked uglier than ever.

David and Jester were stood on the other side, arms folded. David’s suit was clean and pressed, his tie immaculate. The palace guards were stood to attention in front of the thrones, wearing their red-and-black uniforms, their rifles at the ready, trying their hardest to look like professionals.

Pod and his team of fighters were along one wall. Maxie and the chief Holloway kids were along the other wall. Maxie thought it was like some ridiculous school play, like Shakespeare or something, with kids pretending to be kings and queens and soldiers. But she was interested to see how the scene would play out. She could see a faint smile curling David’s lip. For the moment he had the upper hand. The squatters were thrown, their guard was down.