Mrs Gillespie was still in her front room and sitting in a chair that faced away from the kitchen. She hadn’t noticed a thing. My heart started thumping. Going out had been a terrible idea. Helping had been a terrible idea. I needed to get out of there fast and take Whizzy with me, so I just carried on putting stuff away at top speed while a perfect letter Z formed out of white light above my head. Didn’t take my eyes off it. Felt for space in the fridge for the milk and butter. The light straightened out, then zipped into a backwards letter Z, like Whizzy was showing off.

The letter Z got faster and more frantic. The lightbulb turned smoky grey. There was a burning smell and I started to panic … What if there was a fire? (You can’t put water on an electrical fire … can you? I need to know these things. I need to get better training, and fast.) And poor Mrs Gillespie still sat there with her back to all of it.

‘Please don’t, Whizzy,’ I whispered. ‘Not here.’

Poor Whizzy. It must be scary and a bit sad to almost set fire to something everywhere you go.

Back in the front room, Mrs Gillespie held out a plateful of golden-brown twigs that smelt of syrupy ginger. I took one and she shrugged her shoulders and grinned, showing white, even teeth that looked too good to be true.

Whizzy was closer. The air flowed into the room differently, and I smelt rubbery warmth and hot coins. A clock on the wall ticked loud and slow, far louder than the faint sizzling sound coming from Whizzy’s antics.

‘Here, take another couple and sit down, Alfie,’ she said. ‘Make yourself comfy in that easy chair.’ Her eyes glittered with granny-ness. It felt like being in a bedtime story.

‘I’ve got to go, Mrs Gillespie.’

‘Oh, so soon?’

Mrs Gillespie still had her back to the kitchen, but Whizzy hadn’t finished with that lightbulb. Light shot from it in blades of a strange green, which turned to dark red, like a coal fire. (How does Whizzy do that?)

‘You’ll come again, won’t you, Alfie?’

‘OK, Mrs Gillespie.’

I was almost at the front door. The lightbulb was now the darkest, blackest shade of red ever. It fizzed one final time, then sputtered out like a dying firework.

‘And call me Cleona. Sweet spider-leg eyelashes you have,’ she said, chuckling, and I tried to join in, but stopped when I saw what was happening to the kitchen ceiling. The area around the bulb was blackening. Smoke, much thicker than before, was rippling out in yellowy-grey waves that blew into the lounge and out of the front door. I had to do something.