Someone once told me that you could get the flu from physical exertion. It might have been my Grandad, he was often full of bizarre facts like that. I never believed him until now. When I woke, maybe 17 hours later, my body had the flexibility of a steel pipe. I was entirely rigid from the base of my neck down to my toes, and I'd somehow come down with the flu. My nose was stuffy, my eyes were red and wet, and I felt feverish.

  It took me maybe ten minutes of concerted effort to roll out of bed, and even then, it was only the motivation of a painfully full bladder that got me moving. In the end, I walked like my body only had about three joints in total. After emptying my bladder, I simply stood staring at myself in the bathroom mirror, leaning heavily on the sink. My back ached, my knees hurt, my hamstrings and my quads felt like they were about to cramp at any moment. The base of my neck and shoulders was so tight the pressure made me feel like my eyeballs were going to burst from my skull. I had a headache that wrapped around my skull and ran down the sides of my jaw. One of my ears was blocked, and even my toes were stiff and trying to cramp on me with every step.

  Eventually, I lurched away from the toilet into the kitchen and drank as much water as I could stomach. I had about three painkillers left, and I downed those. I had some scraps of stale bread left, which I dipped in a glass of water and devoured. I shuffled to my Grandad's chair and flopped down, put it into recliner mode, and simply groaned with self-pity.

  The comedown from the potion and the after-effects was almost indescribable. My throat was scratchy, my eyes itched, my nose ran, my hands felt swollen and weird, and my guts churned. I was starving, but the thought of eating anything more than a few crumbs of stale bread made me want to vomit. So, I lay there with the curtains drawn, wishing to curl up into a ball but knowing that every muscle in my body would spasm at the same time if I did. So I just lay there staring off at the yellowing ceiling. This was miserable and all for a box of damn donuts.

  Although, as my mind cleared a little and the painkiller set in, I started thinking. It made sense that all power in the Craft had a trade-off. The Pigeon King had said the Craft was dangerous, and creating a potion that suddenly turned me into an Olympic-level athlete had to have some sort of drawbacks. But the idea fascinated me. What else was in that book that I couldn't even begin to comprehend? What other levels of power were there just waiting for me to discover? Despite myself and how much my entire body ached, all I wanted to do was go back to the Pigeon King and find out more.

  As I summoned up the courage to try and maybe have a shower and put on some clean clothes, there was a knock at my door. That was strange, no one ever came to visit, and it immediately put me on edge. They knocked again, and I simply sat perfectly still, hoping they'd go away.

  "Alex," I heard a female voice call through the door. "Alex, it's me, Marilyn. Are you there?”

  Marilyn? What was she doing here? I looked around the place and then down at myself, suddenly self-conscious of how scruffy I looked. She knocked on the door again.

  "Alex, I'm not going to leave until I see you, okay? Just, I need to know you're alright. Open the door, please, Alex.”

  She didn't sound like Marilyn usually did. She sounded panicked, maybe even afraid. I tore myself from the chair, and panicked. I looked up at my Grandad’s urn and picked it up with quivering hands, hiding it behind the tv. I stumbled out of the room, moving like a robot that hadn't been oiled in a century, and stumbled to the door, stopping just to grab my Grandad's old dirty bathrobe. Wrapping it around myself, I tied it up and then unlocked the front door, cracking it open.

  "Marilyn," I said. "What are you doing here?”

  "Alex, are you okay?" Marilyn said quickly, peering into the dark crack in the door.

  "Yeah, I'm… ummm, I’ve just got the flu. Why? What's wrong?" I replied.

  "Alex, you've been missing for nearly three days," Marilyn said. "You haven't answered any of my messages, you haven't come by the florist.”

  "Oh, yeah, right. I thought Mark said that we were to stay away for a couple of days," I replied croakily.

  "Well, yeah, but haven't you heard what's going on?" Marilyn replied.

  "What's going on?" I said.

  "Can I come in?" Marilyn asked.

  "Oh, yes, sure, I suppose." I unchained the door and then stood back, letting Marilyn in. She looked me up and down.

  "What's happened to you, Alex?" she asked.

  "I'm just... I feel a bit… I think I'm coming down with something," I replied.

  "You look like it," she said. "Come on, look, I've brought some groceries. Mark also said that he's going to pay you for the days that you worked. I guessed you and your Grandad wouldn’t have much in at the minute, so I thought I'd get some stuff in for you," she said matter-of-factly, brushing past me into the flat.

  Despite how off-putting it was to have a girl, let alone Marilyn, in my flat, the mention of food made my stomach growl audibly, and a dry, acidic burp escaped my lips. I followed her into the living room and then stood there awkwardly, realizing that I hadn't really cleaned the place, ever. It was just fortunate that I didn't really make a lot of mess, but the place definitely had a very lived-in, musty vibe going for it.

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  "Is your Grandad here?" Marilyn asked.

  "No… he’s out for the day," I said quickly. "He's fishing.”

  "Oh, right." Marilyn opened the cupboards and noted that there was nothing in there and then looked at me quizzically. I just shrugged my shoulders.

  "We need to do the shopping," I said lamely.

  "Well, it's a good thing that I've got you some of the essentials then, isn't it?" Marilyn said, and she busily began putting away the milk, bread, eggs, sugar, and tea that she brought over.

  "Are you hungry?" she asked.

  "Starving," I replied.

  "Well, sit yourself down, and I'll make us some food. God, Alex, you look like you haven't eaten in days."

  I sat down at the small dining table in the corner of the living room and actually thought about it. I don't think I had eaten in days. Other than cramming a few pastries into my mouth, which I then puked up while I waited for my train, what was the last meal I'd actually had? I remember having one pack of noodles left, but surely that couldn't have been the last thing I'd eaten, that was days ago. I'd been stabbed and brought back to life, become a follower of the Pigeon King, and I think I became a superhero briefly, all in between meals.

  After about ten minutes of clattering and delicious smells wafting from the kitchen that made my stomach ache, Marilyn came back out with two steaming cups of tea and two plates of toast and eggs. She set them down in front of me and sat down herself. I practically drooled as I looked at the plate. I slapped two fried eggs onto the two slices of toast and made myself an oily, runny sandwich, taking two massive bites and dribbling egg yolk down my chin. It was genuinely the best thing I'd tasted in months. Marilyn approached her food much more conservatively. She ate with a knife and fork and sipped her tea. I was so consumed with my ravenous hunger that it took until I'd almost finished my sandwich to notice something was off with her. It wasn't until she shifted her hair to sip her tea that I saw the livid bruising on the side of her neck.

  "What happened?" I asked thickly, with a mouthful of toast and eggs, washing it down with a gulp of tea.

  Marilyn looked up sharply, letting her hair fall back in front of her neck.

  "Oh, it's nothing.”

  I swallowed my food and opened my mouth before she cut me off.

  "Have you heard what’s been going on on the estate?"

  "What?” I asked.

  Marilyn sighed and set down her tea.

  "So you didn't hear about those thugs that came to the shop? What happened to them?"

  Suddenly, I felt my stomach go cold and I shrugged.

  "Why? What happened to them?"

  "Someone beat them half to death," Marilyn said. "And then the police arrested them all. There's all sorts of talk all over the estate. People reckon it might have been a rival gang that did it. Other people are saying it was the police.”

  "Really?" I said.

  "And then some people are saying it was someone else," Marilyn continued, leaning forward conspiratorially.

  "Like who?" I asked.

  "I don't know, like, what do you call it? You know, like a do-gooder.”

  "A vigilante," I filled in for her, unable to help myself.

  "Yeah, that's it. A vigilante, like a member of the public, took them out and left them for the police," Marilyn said, her eyes shining excitedly. "How cool is that?"

  "You think it's cool?" I said.

  "Of course I do," Marilyn replied. "I've wanted to take a swing at these thugs my whole life. Growing up on the Mulberry with those punks everywhere is hard," she said, and she unconsciously traced the line across her bruised neck.

  "Did they do that?" I asked, feeling a sudden anger welling up in the pit of my gut.

  "Two nights ago," Marilyn sighed. "I got jumped. It was my own fault. I shouldn't have been walking around that late at night, but I missed the bus and I had to walk through the estate, and these assholes jumped me and robbed me.”

  "Do you know who they were?" I couldn't help it, my voice had dropped to a dark growl.

  Marilyn eyed me for a second and then shook her head.

  "They were just some thugs," she replied. "The estate’s full of them at the minute."

  "Why?"

  "Because of what happened to those other guys," Marilyn said. "Whether it was another gang or a vigilante or whatever, the Syndicate isn't happy," Marilyn said. "They're trying to make a mark on the estate, show who's in charge. They've been really giving it to people. They've been beating people up and mugging them. Shop owners are getting harassed. They smashed in the windows of the chemist and robbed the place. It's like they've already got their boot on our neck and now they're squeezing until we can't breathe," Marilyn's eyes darkened. "You know, if there really is a vigilante running around, then I hope he gets these bastards. They even beat up old Missus Paxman!"

  "Missus Paxman?" I said.

  She was a sweet old lady who we'd known ever since we were children, and she was ancient even when we were little. She used to give sweets out to the local kids and feed the pigeons while watching us play games. Sometimes she'd even referee when disputes arose.

  "They put her in the hospital," Marilyn said.

  "Why?" I asked, aghast.

  "Because she spoke up," Marilyn replied, stirring her tea with the end of her pinky. "She's got it into her head that normal people on the estate should stand up against these criminals. You know, this whole idea of a vigilante hero sparked something in the old girl, and so she gave those punks what for, told them all about themselves. Told them that they can't terrorize normal people and that we wouldn't have it anymore. So they beat her up right there in the middle of the park in front of the children. She hasn't woken up yet," Marilyn stared into her tea. "It's awful."

  Suddenly I'd completely lost my appetite. Old Missus Paxman got beaten up because of me. Because I was running around playing vigilante, I had drawn more of these thugs to the estate and had ordinary people putting themselves in the line of fire while I ran around being an errand boy for a pigeon. My jaw clenched so hard, flames of pain licked my already aching brain, and I felt shame stinging at my eyes.

  "Alex, are you alright?" Marilyn asked.

  I looked up and quickly tried to get my face under control.

  "Yeah, it's just... that's horrible," I said through clenched teeth. "These criminals, you know, they're just... they're scumbags."

  "Yep," Marilyn noted in agreement. "It's just a shame there's nothing we can do about it, and it's better that we don't, Alex." Marilyn said. "We'll only end up like Missus Paxman. It's better that normal people like us just keep our heads down and keep trying to do good for each other and, you know, they'll get what's coming to them. They always do."

  "Yeah," I replied, my voice a low growl. "They'll get what's coming to them.”