“You’re going to go to the nearest telephone box. You’re going to call the school and explain that a bomb’s been planted. You’ll need to disguise your voice. Bombs are being planted everywhere these days, it’s become a kind of sport. So why not in our school? Planes have even been cancelled because of bomb threats. So they’ll almost certainly evacuate us all. In chess it’s called ‘controlling the centre from a distance’ and ‘blockading your opponent’. Then you have to get right away from here – either go home or go somewhere people will see you.”

He was listening with a frown on his face. You could tell the wheels were slowly going round.

“Can’t I stay and take photos?”

“No, of course not, use your head… When you’re a proctologist, if you don’t think things through better than this you’ll be in a fine mess!”

“OK, I don’t mind doing you a favour. And anyway it’s quite a fun idea. But on one condition…”

“What?” I asked, keeping one eye on the policemen in charge of the vehicles. “Quick, there’s not much time.”

“Well, you see that girl over there with the pink bow in her hair?”

I hesitated, but took a gamble.

“Warty Toadskin?”

“Yes. But don’t call her that, it upsets me. Look, I want you to write her a love song, from me. Something that will highlight her qualities. Her moral and her physical qualities, please. Something distinguished.”

I stopped myself from laughing, partly because he looked so serious and partly because I didn’t want to waste any more time.

“All right. I’ll give it to you the day after tomorrow.”

“How about tomorrow?”

“No, the day after tomorrow, because you can’t just call up poetic passion to order.”

Etienne ran off towards the telephone box.

The head was first to come out of her office, looking alarmed, followed by the school assistants. The fire alarm began to wail. Lucky Luke took a while to appear. He looked vacant, as though the situation had nothing to do with him. A continuous stream of pupils began to pour out of every door. Since Lucky Luke was still doing nothing about it, the head began to shout at him.

“What on earth are you waiting for? Can’t you see the chaos out here? Any chance you could shift yourself? You’re supposed to be the man in charge!”

The Man in Charge gazed blankly over the playground as though he was looking through a thick pane of glass. Then he got us to line up, in a very half-hearted and offhand way: he was obviously miles away.

“Why are you in such a terrible state?” I asked him. “Have you got some personal problems?”

“It’s the book on the Tour de France by Antoine Blondin. You should never have given me something so explosive.”