AND A SOUND like the descending hordes of Genghis Khan snapped my eyes back open again. Five grubby figures stormed into the room, wiping grease from chins with even greasier sleeves. Flapping and guffawing, they arrayed themselves on the chairs around me, sending up clouds of horsehair and dust.
Startled, I sank down and simply watched them come.
The Wrong Boys had left their hats and mufflers somewhere, and the first thing I noticed was that not all of them were Wrong Boys at all. The smallest one, wielder of the formidable slingshot, had set free a pair of fluffy, ginger-coloured plaits that fell over her ears and to her shoulders. Her state of privation made it difficult to guess her age – no older than twelve, though not younger than eight. She gave me a gap-toothed grin.
An enormo
