The last thing Malcolm saw before he started to lose consciousness, though, wasn’t his animal friends leaving sadly and shaking their heads. Nor was it Ticky and Tacky (having lost interest in the pigeon, now that they realised it wasn’t a pigeon) going back through the cat flap.

Nor even his mother stepping out into the garden, not noticing him and starting the car.

Nor the streetlights softly coming on.

He saw all those things, but they weren’t the last thing he saw. The last thing he saw – as his tiny damaged head wheeled round back towards his own house, that he used to live in, so safe and sound – was his own bedroom, on the first floor.

From the ground, he could see up into it. He saw a light come on in there, and with his still-strong bird vision, he saw, in the corner of his room, a cage that had been put there, on top of a table near the window. Inside, a small furry creature with enormous ears was running around. A memory came back to him, a word he had learned in school, in the time before, the time when he was a boy: nocturnal.

Which gave him, even in his terrible state, an idea. He fought against the oncoming tide of blackness, the soft rush of sleep, and flapped his damaged wings. With a supreme effort, and with a lot of pain, his broken body lifted.

Slowly, tremblingly, Malcolm rose, towards the window of his bedroom. He hovered there for a second, looking in. He was right: inside, Chinny the Chinchilla was up, running around the room, the door of his cage having been left open to expend all his pent-up night-time energy.

Malcolm watched Chinny running around his floor, under his bookshelf full of books about computers and football and soldiers and all the other things boys like – because that’s who Malcolm Bailey really was: a boy.

With the last ounce of strength he had left, Malcolm flapped his wings and threw himself against the glass. It only made a very small bang. But it was enough to make Chinny look over. The chinchilla jumped up immediately and sat looking quizzically on the other side of the window.

“Chinny!” whispered Malcolm, his voice cracked. “Chinny! Can you hear me?”

“Que?” said Chinny. “No estoy seguro de lo que está diciendo el señor de la paloma …?”

Oh, for crying out loud, thought Malcolm, through the pain. Of course. He’s Argentinian.

But: this close to his boyhood self, looking at his own posters and toys, he found that the memory was there, of bits and pieces of Spanish that he had learned at school.

“Chinny … Chinny. Listen. Soy… Malcolm.”

“Señor Malcolm? El niño? Que vive aqui?”

“If that means ‘the boy who lives here’, yes … I mean, si… not another Malcolm …”

“Por qué eres una paloma?”

“It doesn’t matter why I’m a pigeon. I just am. But look. Firstly, I’m sorry. Lo siento …”

“Por qué?” said Chinny.

“For not being nice to you when mum and dad gave me you as a birthday present. For not accepting you. I don’t know how to say any of that in Spanish. I hope you understand.”

Chinny looked at him. Then, slowly, nodded.

“And secondly, I’m going to go to sleep now.” Malcolm’s exhausted mind struggled for the word. “Dormiré. But you have to stay there. While I go to sleep. Don’t go away. No … vaya. Can you do … that for me … please?” Malcolm’s tiny watchful pigeon eyes finally shut. But just before he actually lost consciousness he remembered one last bit of the chinchilla’s language.

“Por favor,” he whispered.