It was one minute past midnight and, downstairs in the kitchen, the do-gooders were running late. First came the quiet scratching as they shuffled out from under the fridge, and then two small heads popped out, followed by two small bodies. With big, round eyes, they stood and surveyed the spider scuttling in the corner, and listened to the dripping tap. The moon shone in through the narrow gap in the curtains and illuminated their pale faces as one of them said,
"Coast is clear, Jam."
Jam was still blinking away the darkness from under her matted brown hair, but she managed to stumble after him (albeit sleepily) as he crossed the linoleum tiles over to the gap under the back door and slipped out. The outside chill bit into their skin as the wind whipped past them, so they pulled themselves tighter into their clothes and hurried round the house into the street.
A gasp slipped out from Jam's lips, "Oh, Silver."
Up and down the road, the remains of small fires smoked upwards into the sky, and all around them lay the debris from earlier; plastic bags, bits of brick, smashed bottles. Far away, Silver could see the glint of a, no, it couldn't be, surely not, that wasn't a television set, was it? There was a dragging noise behind him. He turned around to see Jam tugging at a black balaclava with one of the other do-gooders from the house across the road - Bench perhaps.
With a sweeping glance he saw a total of fifty-odd of them altogether, all working hard to clear the tarmac. As he picked up a long shard of emerald glass, he realised that, even with such a large number, it was going to be a long night.