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the corner full of toys. A radio-controlled car with Han Solo sprawled across the bonnet.
    “Maxi,” I whispered.
    He stirred from his sleep and licked his lips. It was early. “What is it?” he said, squinting.
    “I just wanted to make sure you were OK,” I said.
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “I feel . . .” He yawned. “I feel incredible,” he said.
    I smiled and pinched his cheek. “Good. Listen, Karate Kid, will you teach me how to do that mind-control thing sometime?”
    “It takes many years to understand the ways of —”
    “Knock it off! I’m a fast learner, Maxwell. You’d be surprised.”
    “OK, young apprentice,” he said in the voice of a slow-talking mentor. “I will school you in the ways of the kendo masters. But first, I must sleep.”
    I pulled the duvet down over his toes, went back to my room, and sat by the window.
    I didn’t want to watch what was about to unfold, but I told myself that I had to. I needed to know if any of this was real. As time drifted by, I became more and more certain that Peter Kennedy’s ideas were crazy and that Max throwing up was just a weird coincidence.
    The street was fairly quiet but for the wind. Helmstown was at the mercy of the weather, and so far it had been a rubbish summer. There was a van parked at the end of the road, and a workman in a big baseball cap got out, coughing. I couldn’t see the cat anywhere, but I could feel its presence behind the parked cars.
    I recognized the crusty guy who came round the corner from my drawing. His dog waddled just behind him. I took a deep breath. The guy was on his mobile, and I could hear him through the window. “For Jesus’ sake, Mum, it’s fifty quid.You’re not gonna miss it. . . . ” Suddenly I hated him.
    The dog got a move on and galloped away from its owner. I didn’t turn my head to watch.
    My heart was hammering now. I heard the dog barking and the cat hissing. Then the cat screeched once and its voice was taken. Still I didn’t look. Instead, I watched the face of the workman change to horror as he looked over at the developing scene. He began to run toward the noise.
    “Milo, no!” the crusty guy shouted. “No! Get off him!”
    I heard a front door open, and the old woman came out. I didn’t need to look at her, because I’d seen her in the picture. I’d seen her broken features. “Stop! Stop him! It’s killing my cat! My baby! Oh, God!”
    I heard the door slam and then open again. The old woman was too frail to take on the dog. She could barely watch, but she couldn’t look away.
    I heard the growl of the dog.
    I heard the workman shouting.
    The pathetic voice of the crusty guy. “Milo, no! Oh, Jesus! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”
    I heard the workman’s hand slapping the dog’s hide.
    The woman still screaming.
    I knew without looking: my picture was complete.
    “Let go!” the workman said. “Come on, boy. I mean it.”
    The cat landed softly. I heard the gentle thud. There was no mistaking it. The old woman moaned. The crusty guy apologized and then kicked his dog.
    “Watch it, you!” the workman said. “People like you shouldn’t be allowed to keep dogs. I saw it happen, so if she wants to report you, I’m a witness.”
    But I was the real witness. The witness and the killer. I had seen it all long before anyone else had. I had made it happen.
    My plan for the rest of the day was this: to stay in my room and not kill anything. That afternoon, Auntie Lizzie gave up trying to coax me downstairs and came in. She sat at the end of the bed with a small envelope.
    “Any news about Johnny?” I asked.
    “No. I called your mum today and she said —”
    “She picked up the phone for you?”
    “Well . . . yes . . . but only because . . . I suppose I just called at the right time of day.”
    “Yeah, sure,” I said.
    “She probably wants to keep you out of it.”
    “I don’t want to be
kept out of it
. What did she say? Has Johnny been in touch?”
    “No,”