The next day she ran away and by the age of fourteen she was known all over as the best of her kind. All the estate boys, both good and bad, were happy to hang around. No deal. Flute was saving herself for Dazzle, some crazy kid. Some crazy kid on holiday, enjoying His Majesty's Youth Adventure Camp, and hoping to get out in a month or so for good behaviour. Until then, Flute would keep the faith, steal the day, thieve the night, purloin the moon. Whatever it took, she took. Without consent.

Always one step ahead of the cops, always on the next but one adventure of a life gone bad.

One time - July this was, last year - Flute stole a camera off a woman in a cafe. It wasn't much of a steal, skills-wise, because the woman was mostly to blame, just leaving her bag like that, unattended, and too busy stuffing her face to notice.

Back in the hiding place, Flute did the once over. Slim pickings really, and not much of a thing to look at; small but snazzy in its add-ons, and worth a minute's work, I suppose. Some film inside it. There was a little light on one side, which glowed yellow. Just for a laugh, Flute pointed the camera at the burned-out biscuit factory in the distance, waited for auto-focus, released the shutter.

Click!

That simple.

She panicked some then, with this mad fantasy that a cop would work out her hiding place from the exact angles of the shot taken. So she ripped the film out, exposed it. Didn't even notice, so busy with the paranoia, that the light on the side was now a deep, pulsing red.

The next day was market day, so Flute was visiting Crabtree, with a stockpile of items she'd been building up in the last week or so. Crabtree was a discerning bastard for someone so far down the feeding scale; he was only interested in prime items, stuff he could sell within a day or two. Flute wished she could get hold of his contacts, maybe get into the fencing business herself one day. Oh, she was a girl with ambition, no doubt about that. So, he took the videocam gladly, and the mountain bike; the motherboard and chips would be difficult, because they were slow as fuck since last month's update, but Flute accepted a knockdown for them. They did the business, and the last thing on the table was the snazzy camera.

Flute wasn't expecting much, enough to bump the margin up to the next level, that was all.

Crabtree wouldn't touch it.

I mean, he literally wouldn't touch it, backing away from the table like the thing was on fire. Flute asked him what was wrong. He wouldn't say, he just pointed out the little flashing red light, told her to get the fuck out of his place of work.

That night, Flute was feeling pretty pissed off, and she didn't know why. The rest of the stuff she unloaded to further fences, even further down the line. None would touch the camera; none would say why.

She woke up in the middle of a bad dream, covered in a sweat. Was she coming down with the fever? Stumbling to the bathroom for a drink of water, her eyes in the mirror, bloodshot. Her hands shaking to turn on the taps, to wet her face.

With a gasp she stepped back from the sink, out of its halo of light. And then forwards again, first one hand, then the other, both hands back into the light as though disembodied. The hands of a ghost, pale and spectral. And on each wrist a stain of red, a small stain.

She woke, thinking it just a dream. Brought her hands up, from under the covers.

The stain had spread.

Washed and washed, she did, but the stain remained, covering her wrists now and creeping down to her palms, and on the back of the hand also, creeping down. Washed and scrubbed, and scrubbed and washed.

The stain crept on.

She wore gloves that day, and for the rest of the week, and not just to keep her fingerprints to herself. She thought a little about seeing a doctor, but Flute didn't have one, and never would, most probably. A doctor was authority, a kind of cop in a way, a body cop. It wasn't her fashion. Instead, she went back to visit Crabtree. It was market day come round once more, but this time no loot for sale, only an answer desired.

She took off the gloves, one after the other, peeling them

slow to reduce the pain. And when she held up her hands, for

Crabtree to see, he took in a long sharp breath. For the whole

• of her hands, both hands, wrists to fingertips, were burning a

bright scarlet red.

Crabtree told her to keep her distance, not even to think about touching him, or any of his property.

'What is it?' she asked, with the fear in her voice.

'Don't know how it works, not yet. We're working on it.'

'But what can I do?'

'Should've noticed that little yellow light. Didn't you notice that little yellow light?'

'I saw it.'

'Should've known what it was. Don't you keep up?'

'Ain't got time for keeping up. What can I do, please?'

'You got to give yourself up.'

'No!'

'Only way. That's how it works. And they can fix it to anything these days. The owner has a code for it, but no-one else does, and you must've used that camera.'

'Just the once. Just the one little picture.'

'That's it, then. You're infected. Keep back! I said, keep away from me!'

'Please, it's not catching, is it?'

'Don't know. Just keep away from me.'

'There's got to be something… something you can do.'

'Only the cops can cure you now. Got to give yourself up.'

So Flute put her gloves back on, and already the redness could be seen stretching up, from the cuffs of the gloves, and creeping up her arms.

But she wouldn't give herself up.

That night she smashed the camera into pieces, and a thin trickle of liquid came from it, from behind the red light, as though from a gland.

Summer came to the estate, and the local boys, the bad and the good, were most disappointed to see that the famous Flute was all dressed up this year, none of the revealing tops of last year. What was wrong with her, usually so proud of her midriff with its cute and pierced button? And worse than that, the fact that she wasn't stealing any more. What was the use of a girl that didn't steal?

But she wouldn't give herself up, not to the cops, not to a doctor, not to anybody in command.

If anybody saw her at all, she was in the shadows, the darkness, never in the daytime. And even then, dressed up to the collar tight, even in the height of summer, and sweating.

But she wouldn't give herself up.

The next time the boys saw her she wore a hat pulled right down, and sunglasses, and a scarf tugged right up. And the make-up was thick on her nose and cheekbones. By then of course they had all heard of the curse. So they were no longer interested and they kept away, which made her glad, for she was far better alone.

And then it was time for Dazzle to be released. There was much gossip on the streets about what he'd think of this new-fashion Flute, wrapped up to the tens, and with the all-over tan. And much laughter - boy laughter, girl laughter - because Dazzle was known for his love, and let's see him love her now, eh?

There wasn't much stealing going on any more, not by anybody, not since the redhanded curse came into play, because how could you trust a videocam or a stereo system or a portable computer any more? They might turn against you, and bite you, and that would be that.

Only Dazzle kept up the stealing, more than ever he did before going off to camp, and nobody could work out why: what game was he playing?

One time he stole a portable with the accessory he was looking for, the little yellow light on the side.

He switched on the computer, wrote a brief love letter on it.

The light on the side turned red - a pulsing, flashing red.

And later that week, what a sight that was; Dazzle and Flute just like in the old days, walking out proud as you like, stripped for action, and both of them showing off with glee the colour of themselves, the colour of their arms and bellies and faces and hair even, the great scarlet spectacle of themselves.