We found the naked body one night, hidden in two plastic bags down an alley. The torso, head, and arms in one, the legs in the other.

"It looks like Michael Jackson," I said.

"Probably is Michael Jackson," Sonny said. "Looks plastic enough."

Laura frowned.  "That’s just mean."  She was smiling. "What shall we do with it?"

So we took it back to the flat and put him in the living room. Michael Jackson stood before the window, naked between the fallen beer cans on the carpet, with one hand on his hip and the other pointing outward to the stars. I closed the curtains so the neighbours didn’t complain.

"Ha!," said Sonny. "He doesn’t have a dong. Told you it was the real Michael Jackson."

"How do you know Michael Jackson doesn’t have a dong?" I asked.

"Read it somewhere. He’s a-sexual. You know, like an alien from Close Encounters."

"That really is mean," Laura said. "We should put some clothes on him."

We went to our rooms and bought out our old clothes. Laura rearranged his hair, which had turned into a bit of a Jackson Five Afro during transportation. We laid the clothes out on the living room carpet, while I turned on Radio 1.

"You can’t put that on," Sonny said.

"Why not?"

"We’ve got Michael Jackson. He won’t like Radio 1. He’s all Motown, and stuff like that."

"Well Radio Motown doesn’t get to these parts."

We left it on anyway.

Laura organised the clothes into piles. Underwear, socks, t-shirts, shirts, jumpers.

"Dungarees?" Sonny said. "We can’t put him in dungarees. He’s Michael Jackson."

Laura shrugged, "I need to get rid of them."

"Yeah, but not on Michael Jackson. You can take those knickers out and all."

"But I don’t have any boy-clothes," she whined, "and I want to be involved."

"Right. Well we’ll start with the socks. Everyone knows Michael Jackson wears white socks. Rain or shine."

It was agreed. We lay Michael Jackson on the floor and helped him into one of my old pairs of white sports socks.

Sonny sniffed Michael Jackson’s feet and looked at me.

"You wash these first?"

"What? I dunno. They were at the bottom of the drawer. Maybe."

"Maybe? Christ. You know who this is?"

"Yeah, we know. It’s Michael Jackson. Get on with it."

Soon we had him in and out of jeans, "Black, not blue," Sonny wailed. A white t-shirt, and a black-rimmed hat Laura stole from a guy a week before at a gangster-themed party.

We stood him up again, and there he was, in our living room…

"Wait. Wait!" Sonny said, running upstairs. He burst back into the living room and grabbed Michael Jackson’s hands.

"TAADAA!"

He leapt back. Michael Jackson now had Tesco plasters over his finger ends.

We looked at our creation. It really was Michael Jackson.

"Where do you think he came from," I asked.

"I told you," Sonny said. "He’s not from here."

Laura smacked him on the arm, but none of us could take our eyes from him. Even as a mannequin he had some other-earthly presence about him.

The radio was still on and as the hour passed the new story broke through our awe.

Madame Tussaud’s have confirmed the theft of their Michael Jackson waxwork. Police suspect it was stolen sometime between eight pm last night and eight am this morning. Nothing else is believed to have been taken and police are looking into the possibility this was a theft ordered by a collector. Police have asked that anyone with any information…

"Crikey," said Sonny. "He’s on the run."

"He’s not on the run," Laura said. "He’s been nicked and left on his own. All alone like a lost puppy."

"Oh well." I yawned, "We’ll give them a call tomorrow and they can come and take him back. Buggered if I’m carry his black and white backside all the way up to Marylebone."

But even then, even when we all agreed we’d call them tomorrow, we knew none of us would.

It was Saturday morning. We sat around the breakfast table eating cornflakes.

"I feel weird," Sonny said. "I haven’t seen this side of Saturday morning before. Normally too wrecked from last night."

It was true. None of us were ever up this early on a Saturday. We’d even forgotten to go down the pub last night because we were too busy dressing and undressing Michael Jackson.

Laura just played with her cornflakes.

"I think he’s changed me," she said.

Sonny just nodded.

I looked from one to the other.

"Yeah, but we’ve got to take him back."

Laura’s spoon crashed against the side of her bowl, splashing the table with milk.

"What if he doesn’t want to go back? He might have run away for a reason. Spending all his days in that place with people pointing at him. I’d run away too. He probably wanted to see the world."

I raised an eyebrow, "The radio said he was kidnapped."

Sonny nodded, "Right pal. All the more reason to keep him safe and hidden until the bad guys are out of the way."

"Are you mad? If we don’t give him back we’ll become the bad guys. We’re harbouring a …I don’t know what we’re doing…aiding and abetting something or other."

"Come on pal," Sonny said, grabbing my elbow. "You know this is the most exciting thing to happen to you since you completed a spreadsheet at work last week,"

Laura laughed, and then her shoulders sagged. She worked on spreadsheets too. We all did.

Sonny squeezed my arm, "Are you with us Pal? ARE YOU WITH US?"

I’d turned into a nine to five robot that sat in front of a computer five days a week and believed exciting things only happened on TV. I banged my fist on the table.

"OF COURSE I’M WITH YOU!"

Back then it was the most exciting moment of our otherwise boring lives.

We borrowed a trolley from the front entrance, left there by a new couple that were moving into one of the lower floor flats. Laura took a bed sheet and draped it over Michael Jackson’s head. His arm wouldn’t move down, and remained pointing. We couldn’t disassemble him again. It wouldn’t be right. Laura and me wheeled him to the front of the building while Sonny bought his estate car round the front.

The more you thought about it, the more it seemed like all Michael Jackson wanted was to get out of that prison and live a little. We had to get him out of London.

Sonny’s car screeched to a halt outside the flat and we rushed outside. Laura lifted the boot while I struggled to get him in. The back seat was down. We tipped him forwards, turning him onto his back. The arm pointed accusingly at us.

"Come on, come on," Sonny shouted, looking in the rear-view mirror. "Get in Pal, you’ll have to pull him in."

I leapt in and heaved Michael Jackson into the back, sliding him between my legs. There was a clunk.

"Steady on!" Sonny said. "That’s Mi…"

"I know who it is!" I hissed. Without giving me chance to get back out of the boot Laura shut the lid and jumped into the passenger seat.

"She saw us," Laura shouted.

I sat up. With Michael Jackson still between my legs my eyes met those of an elderly lady in a long brown coat with matching hat and gloves. It was not cold out. Her Yorkshire terrier also wore a coat. The lady’s eyes narrowed, and at that moment Michael Jackson’s bed sheet slipped from his face. I tried to cover his face but the lady’s eyes widened in shock and horror.

"Step on it," I shouted. "Go go go!"

Every siren out of London filled us with dread.

"Is he hurt?" Sonny called.

"No, I’m all right," I said.

"Not you. Michael Jackson. He got a pretty bad knock on the way in."

I felt him all over.

"No. I think he’s okay." And then I looked at his face again, "I…oh." His nose had been flattened back into his face.

"What do you mean ‘oh’?"

We stopped at Laura’s parent’s place in Richmond for lunch. Her mother greeted us with open arms at the front door.

"Dahling, how are you?"

Hugs and showbiz kisses all round. We sat in the garden, which could have doubled as a cricket pitch, drinking real lemonade and eating sandwiches without the crusts.

"How’s the job," Laura’s mother asked her.

"So-so. You know mum."

"You know your father always said he’d keep a place for you..."

"Yeah, I…"

"Are you all right for money?"

"Yes. Mother. Thank you." She turned red.

"As long as you’re all right." Laura’s mother turned to give the remains of her sandwich to a sausage dog that had appeared at her feet.

Back in the car we waved goodbye and Laura turned the radio on.

Still no news of the missing Michael Jackson. We’d like you to call in and tell us if you spot him, and what he’s up to. Now for a bit of…

She turned it off.

We drove to the coast first, and on a deserted path near the empty car park let Michael Jackson see the sea. His hand pointed out across the waves, and Sonny put his arm around his shoulder.

"That’s right," he said. "That’s where we’re going."

Laura set the timer on her digital camera and we stood in a line arm in arm, with the sea behind us.

The rest of the journey was uneventful. We sang Michael’s Greatest Hits after finding them at the motorway services, and forgot about everything else until we reached Dover. We couldn’t believe it when we boarded the ferry without any trouble. We’d made it.

The police sirens sounded as the ferry pulled away and six police cars stopped at the docks with their lights flashing. Sonny turned on the radio.

…And in breaking news we’re getting a story about two men and a woman police are trying to apprehend at the channel crossing. A member of the public saw them earlier this morning forcing a man into the back of an estate car. Police are advising any members of the public who see them not to approach…

So here we stand, at the edge of the ferry. Laura thinks it has started to turn home. We’re standing with Michael Jackson. Sonny has tied the car jack and spare tyre to his feet. There are tears in his eyes.

"But it’s Michael Jackson," he says, loosening the knots once more and sinking to the ground.

Michael Jackson points back toward land, and as the wind catches his hair the screams of the seagulls above sound like fans calling his return.