“Mummy, what’s that?”

The girl froze in dread curiosity as the shape tumbled towards her along the gutter. Just a crumpled piece of paper, caked with the grime of the dull town centre... but something more. On it tumbled, stretching like a leech past a discarded takeaway box, roly-polying through wind-driven detritus, seeking her out. She was sure of it. And then, a dry whisper just above the blustery street. Her name-

“Jenny, come on. It’s just some old....thing,” managed her mother, raising her shopping bags in frustration. “We’re late already.” And Mummy herself almost got away, almost ushered her charge successfully away from the twentieth unannounced stop of the walk home, without that prickly heat of unease settling into her own belly. It wasn’t just the frightened bewilderment in Jenny’s eyes – that was par for the course. It was the slow roly-poly, roly-poly, of the something through the gutter. The onward crawl against the wind.

“Time for bed, sweetheart!”

“Aww, but Mum-”

“But nothing. It’s way past your bedtime really.”

“But-”

“Get your bed guys and settle down.”

Caramel looked up from his spot on the soft carpet with vaguely curious eyes. Maybe this would be The Night.

His Mummy, if that was who she thought she was, groaned, wriggled out of the sheets, and padded across to the great fluffy heap of bears by the bedroom door. They’d had a picnic today, a lovely little picnic with pink plastic teapots and paw-sized plush scones, and then they’d played at explorers under the black shadow of the bed. The bed guys had, anyway. Albert and Fluffsy and Dilly and Polly and all the rest of them, delighting their Mummy and being delighted back, one warm, happy family.

Caramel watched it as always, mildly interested, enjoying, even, the warm laughter of their Mummy. It was what a ted was meant to do, after all. But a ted was meant to be enjoyed too. The bed guys were. Hooray for them.

Caramel watched, as he did every night, the bed guys being gathered up, chattered at, kissed, hugged, tucked up in their night den, and sat, as he did every night, twisted on the soft carpet, down at the bottom of the room. There were the bed guys, and there was Caramel. It had always been. Ever since the falling out with his old owner. The real Mummy that had passed off that responsibility to this other girl. An unwanted peace offering was all he was now, and in his muddied confusion, his jumble of thoughts from the desolate days and lonely nights, he really did not know who was to blame any more.

The girl’s own mother moved in for a kiss, adjusted the curtains, switched off the light. And at long last, at the same moment as the blackness came, something new switched on in Caramel’s mind. It had been a long time coming.

It was time to do something.

Caramel listened, watched and listened, until the soft snores of ‘Mummy’ and company began. Then, he eased himself from the cooling floor and plodded over to the bed. He gazed up silently at Albert the bear, at Dilly the donkey, and wondered what they had that he didn’t. For once, he was being honest with himself – he wanted a bed spot, and he wanted this soft, smiling girl to be his Mummy.

Caramel cast his eyes over the assortment of things by the bed – a pile of cotton threads and fabrics and stuff, and gathered a pawful of the things he might need. He supposed the plan had begun forming long ago, deep where he couldn’t corner it and shake it away. Now, with firm roots and iron boughs, it had sprouted into his consciousness and taken hold.

The wiry bear stepped back, took a little running jump, and grabbed hold of the edge of the quilt. In the daytime, with someone looking on and laughing, it would have been adorable. But no-one was watching.

He shimmied up onto the cover, set down the bulk of his borrowed things, and paused to feel the soft rise, fall, rise, fall of the girl’s peaceful chest. It was so nice up here, so quiet. He could see why the others were so happy for nightfall to come.

His attention shifted from the mummy to her children. He looked at the wonderful little bob-tails, and the pretty bunny ears, and the love-heart stitched onto Albert’s chest, and he understood. There was something special about them all. But not plain old Caramel.

Things could change, though. And Caramel had his own advantage, in a way. He was awake. A new, burning jealousy creeping under the calmness of the plan, he crept up to Polly, adjusted his grip on the cold, metallic thing in his paw, and got to work.

The day started, as always, with a most unwelcome scream. But Pauline soon realised that this was not the scream of the alarm clock, but a true shriek, a howl of despair she had never heard before, and she bolted awake despite the troubled night. The scream was from next door, oh god, from-

“Alice!” she cried, already bursting through the door and scrambling to the bed. Alice was sitting upright, rigid as a corpse, sobbing and shrieking over and over. She was clutching something in her arms, and when Pauline had finally relaxed the frantic death grip on her daughter and pulled back to see, her face changed into something else. A mask of confusion and horror. It wasn’t what the thing was now... it was what it had been. And what had been done.

Alice held up the mess of fluff and fur. It was a lumpy orb of brown and pink, something solid at the centre of the madness. All around, hanging here and there like dead limbs of a tree, were bits of happiness, of long snuggly nights in the cosy bed. On top, the thin, elegant ears of a rabbit. Three pretty tails, all in a row. A crumpled scrap of red cloth attached by a single thread, dangling from underneath. Bits of happiness, yes, but the rest of them-

“I can’t find Polly! Where’s Albert?” whined Alice. She looked up with wide eyes, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. “Who’s this?” She held out the thing for Mummy, the Mummy who always knew what to do. The Mummy who would take away the thing and bring back Albert and Polly and all the others, who would read a soothing story and make everything better.

That Mummy recoiled slightly, then snatched away the thing angrily. “You horrible girl!” she gasped, turning the ball over and tearing at an ugly protrusion on its side. The thing – paw, leg? – came away easily, clumsy stitches pinging away like old guitar strings. “How could you?” Pauline continued, and it was her turn to shriek. Her little angel, her innocent little girl...

“Mummy, I need my-”

“You’ve done enough”, snapped Mummy, turning and whisking her way to the door. She held up Alice’s handiwork. “This is going straight in the bin. And you never do this again? Okay?”

But Alice wasn’t listening. Her panicked eyes scanned the floor, hands squeezed under the headboard, searching, searching. But her friends were gone. And, when she looked up frightfully, seeking help even though she was in trouble, so much trouble and she didn’t know why or what was happening and oh help!, so was Mummy.

“Jenny...” rasped the roly-poly thing, fighting the wind, but it was too late. The girl had been dragged away once more. The thing had arrived too late. She was here every week, same time, but different places. Sometimes, they trotted down the big lane with the shops; other times, down by the bank. But whichever way he went, she was always out of reach.

One day, the original Mummy, the one who should never have given peace offerings to spoiled little brats like the girl who should have been Mummy but wasn’t, would look down and take him up in her arms, would hear her name, recognise him, even, and take him back. Back home, there would be old friends, handsome, fluffy, cuddly friends, and they could help. Tails, ears, paws... yes, they could help.

But now, it was another week of the gutter. The wind was dying down, and the thing managed to roll and pin a crumpled ball of paper to the kerb like a predator taking down a weak little baby. The stuffing was leaking out of him, had been for days, torn away by wind and rain and rats, but paper could replace that for now. And, in just one more week, perhaps he could replace everything.