Mrs Gillespie began to cough and, turning to look at her crazy, toxic kitchen, tried to stand up, failed, and I dived across the floor shouting, ‘No! Stop! Please!’ at Whizzy, and the next few minutes were chaos, with Mrs Gillespie shrieking, and me trying to calm her down, and Mrs Gillespie starting to call 999, then stopping when she realised the smoke had all blown away. The ceiling was blackened, the floor was a sooty, gungy mess, and the lightbulb was in pieces, but it was all now as cold as an extinct volcano.

‘The electricity people,’ I said. ‘That’s who you need to phone. Your wiring’s all melted.’

She nodded. Her mouth looked all tucked in and puckered with worry. ‘But whatever can have happened? Oh, Alfie, what a good job you were here to spot that.’

I felt myself heating up. It was all my fault just for visiting. I was nodding and smiling dumbly when my breath stopped: Mr Clemm was striding up Mrs Gillespie’s path, carrying the picnic box.

Before I could pull myself together even a tiny bit, the front door was opening and Mrs Gillespie was saying, ‘My, my! Look at you all spruced up! Suits you. Keep it up!’ and Mr Clemm was inside and gigantic and unreal.

‘Come and see what’s been happening in here, Nathaniel,’ Mrs Gillespie said. ‘This young man is a hero.’ She linked her arm through his and they set off to the kitchen together like a lopsided daddy-long-legs.

‘Alfie Bradley,’ he said to me as they passed. Just that. His forehead gleamed with sweat. How could someone so terrifying ever be a good guy? Didn’t trust myself to speak, so held up my hand in a strange waving greeting. Inside, I quaked.

I followed them into the kitchen, where Mr Clemm put the picnic box on the table and opened the lid. A smell of birds clung to him.

Suddenly I knew what needed to happen, but it felt like the most awful thing I’d ever had to do in my life. Nothing else could possibly get Whizzy under control, but … it was terrifying. What might he do to her? Could I really risk it?

‘Erm, Mr Clemm,’ I said, ‘I need to ask you something.’ My heart battered my chest, but the words were out.

He looked at me. ‘Is it to do with our speedy friend?’

I nodded. ‘Things are getting out of control.’

‘Yes,’ he said, glancing from the ceiling to the floor. ‘Yes, I think they are. Come to the house.’

The next ten minutes was a jumble of me and Mr Clemm not telling Mrs Gillespie what had really happened and making sure she’d got a definite time for an electrician to call (Mr Clemm did that) and cleaning up the black-and-red mess from her kitchen floor (I did that, with a dustpan and brush. It was weird wet soot, almost like syrup. Or lava).