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pop on to somebody’s plot and help themselves to the odd raspberry or handful of currants. They were trespassing though, and anyway Hughie hated kids. If they turned up when he was on his plot he’d shout over the rickety fence which separated his garden from the jungle, shaking whatever implement he happened to be holding, telling them they were trespassing and threatening them with the police. They’d gaze at him sullenly for a while then slink off through the rain, calling him rude names under their breath. This hadbeen going on for at least two years, and the hatred he felt for them was matched by their dislike of him.
    One of these kids was Gary Bazzard. Another was David Trotter. The rest were friends who attended a different school and went round with Gary and Trot at weekends and in the holidays.
    Old Hughie’s miserable face floated into Trot’s mind that Wednesday evening when he, Gary, Lisa and Ellie-May were hanging around Trot’s garden gate. Three weeks ago the girls wouldn’t have been seen dead with the boys outside school hours, but lately the four had found themselves drawn to one another by an attraction each avoided thinking about, though they knew it had something to do with the worm. Mrs Trotter, watching them through her front window, told herself that if her son had started taking an interest in girls it was probably that Gary’s fault, and decided to mention it to her husband.
    â€˜What we gonna do?’ said Ellie-May.
    Gary grinned. ‘What d’you think?’
    â€˜The park, of course.’ This from Lisa.
    â€˜No.’ Trot shook his head. ‘I’ve got a better idea.’
    They all looked at him. ‘What?’
    â€˜Old Ackroyd.’
    Lisa frowned. ‘Who’s he?’
    Trot explained. ‘He practically lives on that allotment. He’ll be there till it’s too dark to see his stupid lettuces or whatever.’
    â€˜So?’ Ellie-May looked quizzical.
    â€˜So we take the worm over to the allotments, get into it and spook the living daylights out of him. What d’you reckon?’
    â€˜I dunno.’ Lisa pulled a face. ‘He’s old, you said. He might have a heart attack or something.’
    â€˜Will he heck! If he’d a bad heart, he wouldn’t be able to dig that massive allotment, would he?’
    Gary shook his head. ‘He’d be at home all the time, watching telly and popping pills. I say let’s do it.’
    So they did.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
    â€˜YES, SIR?’ THE young constable looked across the counter at the elderly man in grubby overalls. He couldn’t see the man’s boots, but he could see the muddy tracks they’d left on the gleaming lino tiles and they irritated him. There’s a doormat, he felt like saying, so why don’t you use it? He wanted to say that, but instead he said, ‘Yes, Sir?’
    Hughie Ackroyd glared. ‘I want to report an act of vandalism.’
    â€˜What sort of vandalism, Sir?’
    â€˜Mindless vandalism, of course. The sort you get because bobbies don’t walk the streets any more.’
    â€˜And where did this – vandalism occur, Sir? Were you a witness?’
    â€˜Of course I was a witness. It was my allotment, wasn’t it?’
    â€˜I don’t know, Sir.’ The constable reached out, slid a thick notepad towards himself and fished in his pocket for a ballpoint. ‘I think we’d better start at the beginning. Can I have your name, Sir?’
    â€˜Hugh Ackroyd.’
    The constable wrote on the pad. ‘Address?’
    The man sighed. ‘Twenty-two, Alma Terrace. Look – do we have to go through all this? By the time you’ve finished fossicking about, that dragon’ll have vanished without trace.’
    The constable looked up. ‘Dragon, Sir?’
    â€˜That’s what I said.’
    â€˜You want to report an act of vandalism by a dragon?’
    â€˜Yes. Well