'Y'see lad,' the old man said, 'I were never able to fly like you, 'cause I didn't have the wings for it. When I were your age little boys didn't go scurrying about the garden waving their arms about.' He shook his head sadly, brushing away the long grey hair which had fallen over his eyes and scowling.

'Mother wouldn't hear o'it, not wi' Seekers hanging about the place and no father around to protect us. The war were just about over, beautiful country wasting into dust. Thought it would get better, but the real horror were just beginning.'

The boy wrapped his arms around his grubby knees and shivered. He was only 7 years old, why would this strange old man want to tell him these things? Usually good for a yarn or two about the days after the war, the old man's features were gaunt, greyish with cold resigned eyes and hands trembling more than usual. Somehow today was different. There was no exciting narrative of the old man's own father's wartime heroics and how they all Pitched In to Make Britain Great again, there was no ruffling of the hair and wanting to know how many ships had been sunk this evening. There were no cookies.

They sat quietly together on the dusty old step outside the old man's front door and contemplated the shadows in the overgrown hedgerow along the drive.

'So y'see, I couldn't go sailing on a pirate ship, not with the pond all dried up, all stinking of rotting weeds and neglect. Worst of all, I could never go Adventuring. In those days the bushes were too overgrown and dangerous, full of sticky cobwebs and dark secrets.' He raised his eyes slowly to look at the boy. 'Poor mother. Got her too in the end you know.' The old man shivered at the memory. 'Aye, it were a sad, sad day and what were I left with?'

'But what did you used to do?' said the boy. 'What else is there apart from flyin' an' playin' an' findin' treasure? Inside is borin', why couldn't you go outside?' The boy tried to keep the tone of impatience out of his voice, old people were so funny sometimes, why don't they play like normal people? 'There's always Important stuff to do!' he added, almost triumphantly.

The little boy tried to show confidence in this view, although he could sense the old man's trepidation. There was another emotion hanging in the air that he did not understand. Guilt, no - anger? It clawed at his mind but he pushed it aside, back into the general shadows where such things belonged. The night closed in on them then, when the old man stopped talking and there was no light, save for the dim flickering bulb in the dusty porch.

The old man made no reply to the outburst, but instead reached a shaking hand into his threadbare tweed jacket and pulled out an ornate wooden box, about the size of a cigarette packet. The little boy craned forwards for a better view. The box was covered in what look like intricate carvings, depicting a caricature of a man whose features were built from tiny pistons, cogs and pulleys, connected to even more elaborate machinery that covered the whole contraption. On the back of the box all the wires and cables converged on a hole in the centre, a beautiful, hypnotic pattern in the circuitry.

'What is it?' asked the little boy.

The cartoon man's face was contorted into a terrifying grin and the boy could not tell whether it was a grimace of pain or pleasure. Mechanical eyes seemed to follow him as the old man turned the box over and over in his hands, fingers tracing the lines of metalwork around its edges.

'Well lad,' the old man continued, ignoring the question. 'There are a lot of things in the world we pretend we can't see and there are people out there in the shadows who take a deep personal interest in the affairs of extraordinary folk like you or I.' The boy looked at him, startled. How did he know about the Shadow? What did he mean, 'extraordinary'? He began to speak, but the elderly gentleman stood up wearily, leaning heavily on the boy's shoulder. He patted the young lad's back thoughtfully and turned to retreat into the warmth of his house.

Almost as an afterthought he spun round and thrust the wooden box into the boy's hand. The boy looked down at the strange object wonderingly. The cartoon man grinned grotesquely at him and he was overcome with the old familiar feeling that somebody was watching, waiting. Behind the old man the grandfather clock in the hallway began to slow, a hypnotic, familiar sound of slightly out of time tick-tocking echoing far into the night, conjuring whirligigs of light slowly spinning and flashing into infinity. The old man laid his hand on the boy's head, bringing him out of the trance with a start.

'Now then, stay with me here, son,' he said, smiling kindly down at the frightened little boy. 'We can worry about that later.'

'Yes sir.' The boy watched his friend, warily.

'Don't worry,' the old man said, 'keep the box close to your heart, I pray to the Gods you won't need him but he will protect you when the time comes. Now go straight home and tell your mother I said to keep you safe. Tell her - Tell her Davey says it's time to move again. Tell her it will be okay, I'll call in the morning. Now go, quickly and don't look back! I'll see you soon, I promise.' He stretched with much bone crunching and a satisfied groan.

'Right. It seems I have work to do tonight, so off you go!' The old man smiled vaguely again and slowly shut the creaking door.

The boy ran.

The old man watched the boy head for the gap in the hedge and scramble frantically back into his own garden. He muttered to himself as he headed back inside, securing all five large iron bolts on the big oak door.

'Mark my words, lad. There've been stirrings in the shadows these last weeks. Somebody knows about you, and it's not safe anymore. I thought I could keep them away but it's all starting again. It always starts again. I'll see you soon, I promise. I swear I will make it right.'

The old man did not catch the movement in the bushes. He was unaware of the cold eyes watching, a sudden glint of metal in the moonlight and the hurt mewling of an indignant cat that had just been kicked.

The little boy did not come around again.

The next day there were sirens and dogs and shouting. The old man let the net curtain fall and slumped heavily into the tired old armchair in the window, sending up a little cloud of dust.

He put his head in his hands.