Visitor

Brontë pulled at a cupboard door with a bolt across it and found him.

Here,’ she yelled.

The others rushed across to help, Joe limping along to join them as fast as he could. Half an hour in the fume-filled cupboard had had a devastating effect on the Frenchman. He was semi-conscious, his eyes and nose streaming from the chemicals he had inhaled.

‘Can’t breathe,’ he gasped, gulping at the fresh air.

‘Can you walk a little?’ asked Alain.

Jean-Claude tried, but didn’t have the strength to do more than stagger a couple of steps, his chest heaving with the effort. He would have fallen, but for the strong arms that held him.

‘Hugo, help me with him,’ said Alain, pulling the man’s arm around his own shoulders. ‘You others keep watching in case there are any more visitors. We need to move fast.’

Joe grimaced. He wasn’t going anywhere fast with his wrecked knees.

‘Here, would this help?’ said Brontë, pushing a walking stick into his hand.

‘Thanks. Where did you find that?’

‘Just here.’ She gestured at a row of shelves with sticks and crutches tidily arranged in bins. ‘The upside of being in a warehouse. Shall I get you another?’

‘One’s enough I think.’