Ash ran towards the shadows in the rear of the freak show tent, searching for somewhere to hide. Maybe whoever was coming would only glance inside. Maybe she’d be okay.

‘Ash!’ Benjamin was panicked. ‘What’s happening?’

There – a fake corpse on a table up ahead, surrounded by glimmering autopsy tools. Ash ducked under the tablecloth and crouched on the dusty floor.

Her phone was still glowing. She snapped it shut.

As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she saw that the tablecloth was semitransparent. She could still make out the pedestal and the heads on the walls. But she hadn’t been able to see through it from the other side – she was concealed well enough.

‘Ash, what’s going on?’

‘Shut up,’ she whispered. ‘I’m hiding.’

Light fell into the tent as the flaps were pushed open. Giant shoulders cast thick shadows on the straw.

The strongman, Ash realised, heart in her mouth. If he finds me, I’m dead.

Clomp. Clomp. The strongman’s clogs thumped across the ground.

Was he moving towards the pedestal? Ash couldn’t tell. What if he saw that the hand was gone? What if he was the one who took it? What if the circus thieves were turning on each other?

Ash stared through the cloth. The pedestal was about 3 metres tall, too high for most people to reach the top without a stepladder – but this guy would have no trouble. His arms were as long and thick as the tentacles of a giant squid.

He was approaching the autopsy table. Ash held her breath. Watched as his massive feet thudded closer and closer.

He stopped.

She waited.

And then he bent down to look under the table.