Outside the bunker, in the garage, it’s all quiet today. No Radio One, no little Stokoe. The garage door is shut but not locked and the strong sun glares through the bumpy glass of the window squares.

I leave Alan Shearer in the drawer under the bunk bed, and Pye is waiting for me down on the beach, at exactly the same spot, probably to the centimetre. “Precision counts,” I think and smile to myself, striding towards him. When we’re close, we just stand and look at each other.

It’s like looking into a mirror. Well, not exactly, because a mirror doesn’t show you exactly how your face is, it shows you a mirror image of your face, which is a bit different. And so it is with Pye – ever so slightly different, but still totally weird.

“You came then,” he says.

“Looks like it.”

He smiles. “You look like Rocky.”

“Rocky who?”

“You know – Rocky Balboa, the boxer? In the film?” and he tugs at the hood on my sweatshirt. “Yo, Adrian, y’know whaddam sayin’?” It’s a lousy impression but I laugh anyway. “Where did you get it?”

I shrug. “I dunno. My mum got it off Amazon I think?”

“Where’s that?”

“Amazon? It’s a webs— a mail order company.” Smooth.

“A catalogue? Yeah, my dad’s got one of them. I’ll have a look. Hey, the cat’s OK! I called in on my way here. Mr Frasier reckons she’s going to make a full recovery.”

“Great,” I say, but in truth I had totally forgotten about the cat what with all the other things going on.

We walk along in silence for a bit, and then I say, “My phone. I need to get it back.”

Pye looks at me but doesn’t say anything. Eventually he says, “Your what?”

“My phone. My mobile. My cellphone. I gave it to Macca yesterday. I need it back?” This is making me nervous because I don’t want to mistrust him.

He repeats, “Your phone?”

“My –” dammit – “my calculator, I mean. And camera. I have to get it back. It’s er … it’s not mine.”

“Well that might be a problem. But Macca’s a friend, after all. Why did you call it your phone?”

I don’t answer, because there’s a hollow feeling in my stomach, as if I’m suddenly really hungry, except I’m not, it’s just hearing Macca described as a ‘friend’ after what happened yesterday is too much.

“A friend, you say? A friend? A friend who makes you torture cats? What sort of friend is that, eh? Tell me? He’s got my … my camera and you have no idea how much trouble this creates.” I pause for breath and glance across at Pye who looks like he might actually be blinking back tears.

“Well, let’s go to his house, shall we?” he asks, his voice quavering a little.

“OK,” I say. Which is basically how everything starts to go wrong.