The two Geoffs cram into the doorway of the toilet cubicle and stare in disbelief.

What they see is this: two boys, one (Iggy) in a flat cap, massive woolly sweater and baggy shorts; the other (me) with his pants round his ankles, standing in a huge pile of toilet paper. A green sailing jacket lies on the floor.

‘Can we help you, gentlemen?’ says Iggy in his poshest-sounding voice.

I can’t believe his cheek, but then again this is a boy who has spent a lifetime driving adults almost insane.

The Geoffs look first at us, then at each other.

‘Where is it, you little toerags?’ snarls Geoff Sr, finally.

With a massive effort, I force myself not to glance up to the little window where Hellyann clambered out, leaving the sailing jacket with me and discarding the toilet paper that had been wrapped around her hands and stuffed into her wellies.

‘I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about,’ says Iggy, sounding sincere. ‘But you’ve set back Ethan’s recovery by several months.’

The older Geoff scrunches up his face and says, ‘What?’

‘He suffers from Lavatorial Anxiety Syndrome. Can’t visit public lavatories without risking panic attacks, right, Ethan?’ Somehow, Iggy has managed to make his voice sound both patient and annoyed, as though he is giving the Geoffs a telling-off.

I start to tremble and say, quaveringly, ‘Y-y-yes.’

‘It’s been made worse by recent events. So I’m just in here, helping him, and you’ve ruined everything, including the toilet door. Ethan’s dad is going to be very unhappy with you. Especially if you’re bringing that into his pub.’

Iggy nods downwards and I follow his gaze. Poking out of the bottom of Geoff Jr’s long coat is the shiny barrel of a shotgun.

Whether it’s because of Hellyann’s disappearance, or being confronted by a kid telling them off, the Geoffs are rendered speechless. Do they believe him about Lavatorial Anxiety Syndrome? Whether they do or not, they probably aren’t going to risk being found having an argument with two young boys in a pub toilet, especially with one of them carrying a gun.

At that moment, the door to the gents’ toilet opens, and the policeman who was talking to Dad walks in on the little scene. He stops and looks at us quizzically. At least I’ve pulled my pants up by now.

Geoff Jr says, by way of explanation, ‘Caught these two stealin’ bog roll. But probably not the sort of thing to concern you, eh, officer?’ Then he turns to us. ‘We’re watching you’s,’ he whispers, and they both bustle out.

The policeman knows who I am, and probably thinks that if I want to waste the loo roll from my parents’ pub, that’s my business. He says nothing, anyway.

Iggy and I wait until the policeman is mid-wee then we leave as well, dumping the paper in the bin on the way out.

Hellyann is crouched, hugging herself against the cold, behind a huge kitchen bin below the gents’ toilet window.

She grabs the green sailing jacket from me and as she tries to pull it on, she nods gratefully.

At least, I think it’s gratefully. I haven’t seen her smile, but perhaps they don’t. Or – more likely – perhaps she doesn’t have much to smile about.

Iggy helps her on with the coat, like a kindly old man with his wife. As he does, his sleeve falls back to show his wristwatch, and I see with a twist in my stomach what the time is. I told Gran that I’d be right back.

She was making hot chocolate. I know the routine. She’ll make it in the kitchen, then, holding a cup in each hand, she’ll open the door to the living room with her bottom and then chant, ‘hot-chocolate-drinking-chocolate’ because it was on some ad on TV ages ago …

‘I’ve got to go,’ I say.

‘What? Or you’ll turn into a pumpkin?’ says Iggy incredulously. ‘Come off it – you can’t leave me now!’

‘I have to, or … or …’ I’m not sure exactly what might happen, so I end up lamely, ‘or I’ll be in trouble.’

‘Like we’re not already? What are we going to do with our new friend?’

Beside him, Hellyann stands shivering.

I’ve already thought about this.

First, though, I have to lie to my gran. I feel guilty with every letter I type into my phone.

I am staying here. Sandra the FLO wants to ask me some more questions about Tammy.

Honestly, it feels horrible dragging Tammy into my deception but I know that Gran won’t want to interfere with the police’s questions.

Then I make the lie better by adding:

Sorry about the hot chocolate.

Extra for you! :)

Enjoy the concert! Xxx

Sometimes I really hate myself, especially now, when I am lying to my gran.