And then Alvy kicked him right in the ankle and ran off laughing evilly.

'You bastard, you bastard, you bastard.' Bob hopped up and down. Til get you for that. Thou wilt suffer at my hands. Oh yes thou wilt.'

The corridor was empty and Bob wondered now whether he should simply run away. Why not? Just go, run home. Run home? Home to his mum?

Small Bob's eyes filled once again with tears. His mum. She'd died when he was fifteen. If he was a child again, he could see his mother again. And his dad too, although his dad used to knock him about quite a bit. But he'd really like to see his mum. In fact…

'In fact,' said Bob to himself. 'I should go and see my mum right now. In case I just quantum leap all of a sudden when I'm not expecting it. It would be \vonderful to see her. Even just for a moment or two. I could tell her…'

Small Bob paused and a lump came into his throat. 'I could tell her how much I love her. I never did when I was a child. I'm sure I never did.'

Of course the house seemed bigger now. That little house in Dacre Gardens. That little house with its well-kept window boxes and its sleeping tomcat on the window sill.

'Old boy Rathbone,' said Small Bob, ruffling the pussycat's head. 'Thou venerable mouser, it's good to see thee, boy.'

Above him his parents' bedroom window flew up and a pinched and troubled face glared down. Bob grinned up. 'Mum,' he said. 'Mum look, it's me.'

The pinched and troubled face continued to glare. 'What are you doing home, you little sod?' his mum called down.

'Who is it?' called a man's voice from behind her.

Bob's mother turned slightly. 'Shut up,' she muttered, 'he'll hear you.'

'Who's that, Mum?' called Bob.

'Shut up. It's no-one. What are you doing home now? You've bunked off school, haven't you?'

'Mum, I had to tell thee, 11-'

'You just wait till your father hears about this, he'll leather your arse with his belt.'

'Come back to bed Doris,' the strange voice called again from within.

'Mum, who's that?'

'It's no-one. It's no-one. And if you say anything to anyone, I'll bung you in the coal hole with the spiders for the night.'

'Mum, I…'

'Go back to school at once.'

And the bedroom window slammed down shut and Bob was left alone.

'Mum,' he whispered and snivelled as he did so. 'Mum, I did love you. I did.' And Small Bob ruffled the tomcat's head once more, turned sadly and wandered away.

He wandered down to the Flying Swan. But then, remembering that he was now just a child, he wandered away from there. He wandered into the Plume Cafe and ordered a cup of coffee. The proprietor, Old Mr Lovegrove, demanded to see coin of the realm. Small Bob found that his pockets, filled as they were with such useful items as lolly sticks, pieces of string, bottle tops and a five-amp fuse, were bare as the cupboard of L. Ron's mum, when it came to the price of a coffee.

Mr Lovegrove hauled him out by the ear and flung him into the street.

Small Bob sat himself carefully down upon a bench in the memorial park. He would dearly have loved a pint and also a cigarette. His head was spinning, his ears were red and his backside smarted dreadfully.

'Woe unto me,' whispered Small Bob to himself. 'Woe unto Small Bob, helpless in a world of cruel and brutal adults. I never knew that being a child was really as awful as this. I'm sure I remember it being sunshine and coach trips to the seaside. Well at least the sun is shining, which is something. But was childhood really this ghastly? Surely not. Or perhaps it was, but we just took it for granted. Made the best of it and only remember those best bits when we grow up.

'What a dismal happenstance. But no. Holdest thou on there, Small Bobby Boy. This doesn't have to be a torment. Anything but. Surely this is everybody's dream. To be young again. But knowing all the things that you wish you'd known then. You'd be one step ahead of everybody else. Two steps. Ten steps. And you could get rich. Play the stock market, knowing what shares to buy. Invent some invention that was everyday •when you were grown-up but didn't exist when you were a child.'

Small Bob grinned and now began to rack away at his brains. What did he know, that no-one in this time knew about yet? There had to be something, and something he could profit from. Something that could make him somebody in this world.

But slowly the grin began to fade away from his small and hopeful face. He didn't know anything. He didn't know anything about stocks and shares. And how would he go about inventing some piece of advanced technology that was everyday in the world he'd just come from? He had no idea whatsoever.

'Well well well.'

Bob looked up and Trevor Alvy looked down.

'You bunked off school,' said Trevor. 'You're in real big trouble.'

'Go away thou foolish child,' said Bob. 'Thou art a bullying little buffoon. You will be sent to approved school when you're twelve and, by the time you're seventeen, to prison for stealing a Ford Fiesta. Dost thou wish this future for thyself? Come, I bear thee no malice. I understand now why thou behavest as thou dost. Rage and frustration. I understand well. Let us speak of these things. And… Oww!'

Trevor Alvy had him in a headlock. He dragged Bob down to the dust, grinding his face and squeezing his neck. Bob squealed and struggled to no avail. And Bob remembered well. It had been Alvy's torments that had made him train when a teenager. Go to the gym, lift weights, work out, learn the martial arts. Bully no man, but let no man ever bully him.

Trevor Alvy poked him in the eye. 'That to you loony boy,' he cried. And then he jumped up, kicked Bob in the ribs and ran away.

Small Bob lay there weeping. That was it. That was enough. That was all he was prepared to stand. He was going to get out of here. Run away to sea. Sign on as a cabin boy. Get away. Run. Run away.

Children were pouring into the park now. Laughing happy children. Children who were making the best of being children. Children who didn't know anything else except that they were children and this was the way things were.

Bob huddled there in a very tight ball, his fists pushed into his eyes.

'Bobby,' said a little squeaky voice. 'Bobby, are you all right?'

Bob peered up through his fingers. It was Phyllis Livingstone. The little dark Glaswegian girl smiled down at him. She had a front tooth missing and orange-juice stains at the corners of her mouth. And even from where Bob lay, or perhaps because of where Bob lay, he could smell her. Phyllis Livingstone smelled of wee wee. She didn't smell nice at all.

In fact, as Bob looked up at her, he could see most clearly now that she really didn't look very nice at all, either. Gawky, that was the word. All out of proportion. Children aren't miniature adults, their heads are far too big. If an adult had a head as big as that in proportion to its body, it would be a freak.

Bob thought of Periwig Tombs. Perhaps his head had just kept on growing along with his body.

'Are you all right, Bobby?' asked Phyllis again.

'You smell of wee wee,' said Small Bob. 'And your head is too big and I'm sick of this world and I want to go back to my own and… oh… ouch!'

Phyllis Livingstone kicked him. And she kicked him very hard.

And then, with tears in her little dark eyes, she turned and ran away.

Small Bob wept a bit more and then he dragged himself to his feet. He really had had enough. He ached all over. He was sore and he was angry. He wanted to go home. No, he didn't want to go home. He just wanted out. Out of this and back to his real self.

He shuffled to the playground and pressed his face against the wire fence. The children, happy, laughing, played upon the swings and on the climbing frame. A fat boy named Neville sat in one of the swingboats. Ann Green, little yellow-haired girl, pushed the swingboat forward. Up and back, she caught the swingboat, pushed it forward, up and back.