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Pop-in.
    Trisha and Dee used to tickle my feet, when I was still Byron. Even though they always watched out for me, ’cos they were older, they’d still tease. As a matter of actual fact, they’d tickle my feet with
feathers
. Trish would hold me down while Dee unlaced my footies, unrolled my socks, and then they tortured me. Other times, we’d play Garden Gorilla and I’d chase them up the tree and wouldn’t let them down. Before Mum dropped out of the picture and Dad moved in down the pub.
    After me and Grace put Angel-Face Spar to bed for the night – sleepybyes, soon as his head hit the pillow – Virus got down to serious busyness, fidgeting with his gadgets, trying to figure out what online accounts he can hack at. He ain’t called Virus for nothing. All the shoplifting is just for daily spends. Hacking is his real investiness. He sets up his swotboys at their laptops to begin their nightshift, while me and Tex set about licking clean whatever’s left of the grubbings. Our job is to bring the gear in. We avoid the tedious shiftwork: cracking access codes, guessing passwords, so Virus can spread his technoworms.
    Grace is sitting there, agitated. It’s catching. Virus is agitated too. And Tex. We’ve all caught agitateditis. There’s only one individ who spreads illwill as rapidly as this, and the Citizen knows full well who that is.
    After a while, there’s a hammering. It’s the coded rhythm, as banged by a mob of toddlers on a sugar high.
    “Jackson,” says Grace, getting up.
    She unbolts the door and it crashes wide open, smashing against the wall, almost giving her a faceful.
    He never enters a room quietlike.
    Jackson Banks stromps in, a boy with a limp on one side of him, a dog with a torn ear on the other. JB gives a slow glance round the room, like he’s looking for someone to play with. He’s got the thumb of one hand hooked into the pocket of his strides, casualitylike, but the ring fingers of his right hand are clenched tight. He’s got four rings, glistening, twenty-four-carat diamond knuckle-dusters.
    His boy is called Crow, a sore-faced, skinny kid with a jutting, sulky lip. He’s got a scar running down his face, and it ain’t no fancy one like Harry Potter’s, just an ugly scribble. The dog, Obnob, is of the permanently shifty variety, his ragged ear all torn, like he lost a bit of it in a fight.
    Word of advice: never put your hand down to give him a stroke.
    Jackson wraps an arm round Grace’s waist and pulls her into him for lipsmacks. In his other hand he’s got his gym bag, bulging with loot.
    “Intercom system’s bust,” he grins. Bust, as in smashed to smithers. Anything Jackson Banks lays his fingers on seems to disintegrate.
    “I do wish you wouldn’t do that, Jackson,” says Virus.
    “If I can, the Sherlocks can.” Like that settles the matter. His nostrils twitch in the direction of the table, where Tex is mopping up the last of the egg with a slice of bacon. “Meat.” Jackson appropriates a smile.
    Jackson Banks is one of those peeps who’s got a shark of a smile. It’s like his gnashers are the real him, his lips are just clothing, like a jacket for teeth.
    “I’m sorry, Jackson, you’re a little too late. Twenty minutes ago we had a feastful.” Virus shrugs sorrylike.
    Obnob snarls, leaps onto a chair, then right up onto the table, shoving his maw into Tex’s plate.
    “Oi!” Tex makes a grab at the plate and the dog bites his hand. He continues snarfing, growling and gobbling stimulatiously.
    Tex’s hand drips red fingerjuice on the tabletop and Virus
tsks
. “Does it have to? Its claws are scratching the finish.”
    Jackson laughs, like it’s the funniest thing since armpit farts. He flings his arm across the table, clearing it of dog and plate with one swipe. The plate shatters on the floor. As Jackson chuckles, Obnob rolls back onto his feet, gives a dirty, big bark and lunges for Jackson’s boot, clanging his canines against the steel