And now he has his back to me.

He’s gray haired, thin, wearing beige trousers and a navy blue jacket, and carrying a holdall. He walks fast, not looking to the door on the left that I escaped out of, not looking at the gates that the van went through, and he carries on to the end where he turns to the door on his right and unlocks it. As he turns the handle and steps inside he looks toward me. Then he’s gone.

So, if that is Bob, do I wait for him to come out again? He might stay in there for a few days. I’ve got to see him. Must stop being so pathetic. I’m crossing the road.

Now what?

A girl is walking up the alley ahead of me; she’s moving fast and is already at the end and knocking on the man’s door and going in.

What?

Do I do the same? Or wait?

A horn blasts. I’m in the middle of the road. I scuttle back to my side of the street and my doorway.

Was the girl watching too? Is she seeking help, or is she his assistant . . . daughter . . . friend?

She’s coming out already. She’s a kid, younger than me.

She’s walking fast, jogging across the road through a gap in the traffic, turning to her right and glancing at me.

Beckoning me.

I look at the alley.

It will still be here later.

I swivel round in time to see the girl turn down another street and I jog to catch up.

She cuts down another side street and then another and out into a major road with people and shops. Busy, barging people and I can’t see the girl. She could be in any of the shops. Clothes. Phones. Music. Books.

I turn round and she’s standing right in front of me.

“Hi,” she says and grabs my arm. “You look like you need a drink.”

She’s chosen a table at the back of the coffee shop. We’re sitting opposite each other. She bought the hot chocolates and asked for extra mini-marshmallows, then told me to carry the tray, and now she has the cup to her lips and is staring at me over its pink and white mountain. Her eyes are definitely fain: green, pretty but lacking that witch thing . . . the sparks. Definitely fain. And yet they’re weird; they have a liquid quality. There’s another color in there, a turquoise that’s sometimes there and sometimes not. Like a tropical ocean.

“You want to see Bob?” She flicks her long brown hair over her shoulder.

I nod and attempt to sip my drink but can’t get at it for the pile of marshmallows. I eat all the marshmallows to get rid of them.

“I can help you.” She picks at her marshmallows, waves a pink one in the air as she says, “What’s your name?”

“Um, Ivan.”

“Unusual name.” She picks up another marshmallow and adds, “Well, not in Russia, I suppose.”

She takes a sip of her hot chocolate. “I’m Nikita.”

I don’t think so.

“Do you work for Bob?” I ask.

She looks about fourteen, fifteen tops. She should be in school.

“Do the odd job for him. A bit of this. A bit of that. Run errands for him. You know.”

Not really.

She finishes her hot chocolate, getting everything out with a spoon. After a lot of scraping she puts it down, and says, “Want a cookie?” She’s up and gone before I can answer.

She comes back with two huge chocolate cookies and passes one over to me. I have to concentrate on not stuffing the whole thing in my mouth at once.

“You shouldn’t hang around in front of the Council Building,” she says.

“I was being careful.”

“I spotted you.”

I was being careful.

“You need to get some sunglasses to hide your eyes. And I’ve no idea what those are”—she points to my tattoos— “but I’d get some gloves.”

I have a scarf round my neck that I took from the holiday home, but there weren’t any gloves.

She leans over. “Cobalt Alley is protected.”

“Yeah, how?”

She waves her hands around. “Magically, of course. Fains don’t see the alleyway. Only witches see it.”

So she is a witch. But her eyes are different.

“Once you’re in the alley you won’t get out of it unless you look at where you’re going and think about where you’re going. And I mean look hard and think hard. On the way in only look at Bob’s door, think about the door and nothing else and you’ll get to it. On your way out stare at the buildings on the street at the end. Don’t look down. Never look down. If you look at the gates to the Council building, if you think about the Council building, that’s where you’ll end up.”

“Right . . . Thanks.”

“Your homeless disguise is good, by the way.” And she gives me a smile, so I’m not sure if she’s joking or not. Before I can reply, she gets up and walks out of the coffee shop.

My stomach gurgles, and I get that taste in my mouth and have to run for the toilet. I throw up into the bowl, a coffee-colored mix of little floating marshmallows and sludge.

I wait, and nothing more comes up, so I swing around to drink water from the tap. The face looking back in the mirror is pale with bloodshot eyes weighted down by black sacks. I do my best to heal, but decent food and water are the only solution. I look at the state of my old jeans, worn thin at the butt and knees. My shirt has holes on the arms and around some of the buttons. My T-shirt underneath is gray and frayed around the neck.

I head out of the shop but the woman behind the counter runs after me.

“Your friend just left you something,” she says, handing me a large paper bag.

Inside the bag are two packs of sandwiches—ham and cheese and BLT—a bottle of water, a bottle of fresh orange juice, and a napkin with writing on it. It takes me five minutes to figure out what it says.

I’ve eaten the BLT, drunk all the water, and I’m looking at Cobalt Alley. It can’t be that hard. Can it? I’ve got to get on with it. Bob and Nikita kept to the narrow pavement on the righthand side. Bob’s building stretches back from the corner to the wall at the dead end. It’s a rundown low building, one story with a slate roof, and its one door and one window are way up the far end of the alley.

I keep a steady confident-looking but not rushed pace and have my head slightly angled away from the Council side. My eyes are staring at the entrance to Bob’s place. I’m thinking, Bob’s place. Bob’s place.

I know I don’t look casual, and I have to make myself slow down in case anyone from the Council building can see. But then I feel a pull toward the Council building and I think, Shit! Bob’s place. Bob’s place. And I keep my eyes locked on his door.

I get there. Thank you.

Bob’s place.

I knock.

Bob’s place. Bob’s place.

I stare at the door. I’m muttering now, “Please hurry. Bob’s place. Bob’s place.”

Nothing.

Bob’s place. Bob’s place.

I knock again. Louder. “Hurry up. Hurry up! Bob’s place. Bob’s place.”

What do I do if guards come out of the Council building now? I’m trapped. The whole thing could be a Council trap. And I feel my body being pulled again toward the Council building.

BOB’S PLACE! BOB’S PLACE! I can’t wait this long. Bob’s place. Bob’s place.

The door clicks and opens a fraction.

Nothing else happens.

I step into the room, turn and push the door firmly shut.

“Bloody hell! Bob’s place.”

“Yes, do come in. Glad you made it, but I’ll have to kill you if you even glance at the painting.” Far from being a threat, the words sound like a desperate plea for attention.

I turn to see a grubby room. Even the air tastes grubby. Against the far wall, which isn’t that far, as the room is narrow, is a wooden table with a bowl of fruit on it. There are a few apples and pears scattered across the table. To my right there’s a wooden chair and an easel and beyond them an open door through which the voice called. The position of the easel indicates the painting will be a still life of fruit. I go toward the next room, stopping to look at the work in progress on the way. It’s good, traditional and detailed. Oil on canvas.