ACCOUNT OF AGATHA BURKINS

62, SHOP CLERK

I'm probably one of the last to have seen the boy in Magnolia Crescent, I s'pose. I always thought he was a strange boy, so tiny and quiet as he was. He did have a beautiful smile. The very first time I saw him come in by himself, he couldn't have been more than five at the time and here he comes in tramp's clothes and a pair of child's shoes that were far too wide for his little feet. I had half a mind to shoo him back out. You just can't take chances with those beggar types, you know, even the little ones. They're all thieves.

I was going to suggest that he kindly leave when he came straight up to me, the bold little thing, and asked me as politely as I've ever seen a boy of that age do, "Where is the milk, please?" I've got grandchildren of my own; I'm no heart of stone. Suspicious as I am, though, I hardly wanted to point him in the way of things that possibly might find themselves in his baggy little pockets. But he smiled at me, the most beautiful smile that made his green eyes (he had the greenest eyes, that boy) small and crinkled, and I melted. I showed him the milk, even if he was going to nick it, because he was so tiny and had such a beautiful smile for a little thief. And his green eyes were so lovely, the kind of thing that makes you certain someone loved him somewhere. But that was a long time ago.

9, MAIN CHARACTER

Sometimes I wake up and can't think about anything at all.

Uncle Vernon says I'm stupid, stupider than Dudley, who's about as clever as a drunk ape and as good-looking as one. Aunt Petunia agrees with Uncle Vernon on most days, because she's his wife, and when you're a normal wife you do things like agreeing with your husband and calling freaky nephews stupid little monkeys. I don't think I'm that stupid, because if I was maybe Dud'd like me a bit more, and I'd have more friends. The only thing worse than being a freak that no one likes is being a clever freak that no one likes.

My head is always filled up with stuff. School stuff, Dursley stuff, running away from Dudley stuff - all sorts. Sometimes I have thinking about my parents stuff, and sneaking into the kitchen for dinner stuff, and not burning the bacon stuff, and wondering what's so funny on the television stuff, and I get so much stuff in my head it feels like a balloon by the time I finally get to sleep. Those are the mornings when I wake up with an empty head and all the stuff is gone. I like those sorts of mornings, because I can stare at the ceiling without really looking at it, or cover my face with the blanket to see how long I'll last holding my breath, or open all of the cleaning bottles until the cupboard air is all filled with smells that hurt and burn my throat, without really feeling it, and there isn't any stuff in that at all. Sometimes I like to think that if I hold my breath a little bit more, drink something from one of the cleaning bottles, toss my head into the ceiling hard enough, I'd never have to deal with stuff again. I could see my parents again, maybe, and laugh with them about how thick Dudley is and how awful Aunt Petunia's hair looks on rainy days, and then I'm really serious again, and the stuff comes back like water into the bathtub, and I realise I'm just being stupid like Uncle Vernon says I am. Dead people don't get to laugh about anything, do they?

Today is very different. I wake up the same as any other day. (I always wake up the same, with my arms sore from sleeping on them and my hair sort of damp because the cupboard gets sort of hot on summer nights.) This time is weird, though. There isn't any stuff, no thoughts, no nothing. It's like a dream, only I can tell that I'm awake because of my achy arms and the stinging in my scar. There's a little voice in my head that tells me what to do.

Wake up, child.

It's a nice voice, not like Aunt Petunia's loud one that usually wakes me up, or Dudley's thick one when he comes tumbling down the stairs every morning. It's soft and sounds maybe like a parent, like a mum.

Put on your shirt. There you are, trousers next. Put your shoes and socks on now. Good lad. Anything else? Hurry, take the rest of your clothes and wrap them in the blanket. Those absurd metal things as well, if you really must.

I pack up all of my things and use an old bag Aunt Petunia used to carry groceries in to carry them. Somewhere in the back of my head I think it must be very strange to listen to a voice when I don't know where it's coming from, but it doesn't bother me much. I'm used to being told what to do by other people.

I'll just be a minute - you're rather tall, you know.

No one's ever said I was tall before. Scrawny, midget, sprog, maybe little one, if it's the school Nurse talking to me. But never tall.

Ready? All right. I'm coming up!

It starts by my right foot, a sort of sneaky little feeling, like the shivers I get when the cupboard gets cold in the winter, and it doesn't go away.

I'll need some help coming up, I think. This is quite a challenge.

My head is cloudy still from the nothingness, but I can still manage to look down and pick up the tiny snake. Hm, I think, if I was in a stuff-y sort of mind I might think it was a bit strange to be listening to a snake.

Set me in the bag now, there's a good lad. Out we go!

But we can't go out. I remember that. Uncle Vernon locked the door last night. He almost never does, but he did last night, for some reason. I tell my little voice that, but he doesn't hear me.

Out we go, he says again, and I think maybe he'sthe stupid one Uncle Vernon is always on about. Open the door, child. It's very hot in here. Open the door, quickly, before they wake.

My head is foggy. My ears are slow and my mouth doesn't want to move. How do I tell the voice that we are locked in without making him angry? He wants to get out of here so much, he wants so much to be free...

And the door opens. Just like that, without even touching it.

On we go now.

We tip-toe to the front door and open it up very quietly. I know how to do things like that, very quietly. It's only after we get outside that my mouth will work. "I don't know what I'm doing," I tell my voice.

That is perfectly clear to me, he says. I think he sounds a bit rude, a bit like Piers Polkiss, who likes to make me feel stupid by saying things like that. He reads the dictionary sometimes, Piers does, so that he can use big words to make me feel thicker than he is. It's all right, my voice tells me, I know where we are going. Left, straight ahead, left again, right three times by the first "Stop" sign and straight on some more. Walk, child. That's right. We will be all right if we walk. Only if we walk. Keep walking. Keep walking.

Each step is like a waking-up slap from Aunt Petunia. Three streets away, six, ten from Privet Drive. It's school today, but we're going the wrong way. We won't go to school today. We're walking up instead, through Magnolia Crescent and away from everything. I've never been this far before, except to go to the eye doctor once, and once to see something called a spycologist's office, because Dud was having nightmares. We walk up, down, sideways, and all over - where the little voice says. We walk for ages and ages, and soon enough my stomach is making hungry noises, and my head is sore and my legs are achy from all of the walking we are doing. Once I get my mouth working properly I stop to ask the snake-voice where we are going, but he says to trust him. This will be fun. We are going on an adventure.

I like adventures. I don’t go on many of them anymore, but I used to, when I was too little to do chores and Aunt Petunia stuck me in the garden or my cupboard to stop me getting underfoot. I was an astronut a lot, and my cupboard was a spaceship, and I went to the moon and met cleaning bottle aliens and we had a lovely time eating make-believe moon biscuits until someone called me out for my bath. I went on safaris in the garden and found a tiger, which was really Mrs Figg’s striped tabby cat, which bit me like I’d expect a tiger would, for trying to pet it. I’ve never been on an adventure that wasn’t at school or the garden or the cupboard under the stairs, and don’t tell anyone, but it’s a bit scary.

Our adventure takes us to a train station. It’s big and noisy, noisier than the hospital where Dudley had to go to have his colour-changing problem fixed. I’ve never seen anything this big before, nothing so busy or loud or exciting. This is a real adventure, not like being in the cupboard and pretending about moon people and fake biscuits that only make me hungrier. I’m on a real adventure, like in a comic book or a film. I’m all by myself; I’m just a kid. I haven’t any money, and neither has the snake-voice, but this time I really do know what to do. I saw this in one of Dudley’s favourite films once when I was peeking through the crack in the cupboard door.

“Snake,” I whisper, very softly, because I can’t let anyone hear me or I’ll be caught. “Be very quiet.” In this film there is a boy who is secretly a spy. He always knows what to do in times like this, like when he’s trying to sneak onto a train. There’s a man on a bench a little bit ahead, and woman across from him, reading a gossip magazine like Aunt Petunia does. I’ll stay away from both of them, especially the magazine lady. Three benches down another lady is holding a baby and talking to it. She makes those stupid faces like people usually do when they talk to babies, and I know right away that she’s perfect.

Nearly everyone says I look younger than I really am. Maybe it’s because I’m so short, or because my eyes are too big, or my hair is too messy. I dunno. I do know that I am very small and very young looking for my age. I also know that this lady is holding a baby, which means that she likes kids, which means that looking young will help. A lot.

It’s not as easy as it is in the film to make myself cry. I have to think about a lot of sad things, like cats dying and Dudley in a bathing suit and my mum and dad never being able to eat strawberry ice cream. Even then I only get one or two tears, so this time I make myself think about Privet Drive. I imagine I’m running away because my Uncle Vernon is going to kill me if I don’t, because he’s always angry and telling me how worthless I am. Because no one would ever miss me even if he did, except maybe my snake and Jo. And then I get to thinking about Jo, and how I’m leaving without even saying goodbye, and how unfair that is to her. She definitely deserves a better boyfriend than I could ever be.

Finally, the tears come.

They come in big waves down my cheeks that start a sniffle. I imagine my eyes are probably pink and my nose is all soppy from snot and tears. I give a quiet little groan, to hear how it sounds. It’s all good, just like the kid in the film. Just like the top-secret spy.

Now all I have to do is sit down by the lady with the baby, and she looks at me really curious for a minute, like she’s not really sure if she ought to say anything. And then she asks me, “Are you OK, dear?”

“Mummy!” I sniffle at her, and she puts the baby into a little plastic seat to get me a tissue for my wet face.

“Where is your mummy? Are you lost?”

“Mummy’s gone!” My scream even sounds real, which it sort of is. It’s not so hard to lie about being lost from your parents when they’re really dead and everything.

“Where did she go? What does she look like?”

I’ve even got her looking round the platform for my mum, who doesn’t exist anymore, as if she’s going to find her.

“The train!” I’m wailing and wailing the same thing. “The train! The train!”

Now she’s really going for it.

“Which train? That one? Which one, dear? Which train is your mummy on?”

I point. Any train. I don’t care, as long as it isn’t moving yet.

“The train! They won’t – won’t let me g-go – no t-ticket!”

“Has your mummy got your ticket?”

“Yes, and she’s lost. She’s left me. Gone, all gone away.”

And that’s all it takes for her to grab my hand and lead me away.