‘Unbelievable!’ Sam yelped, stamping on the hay. ‘Something happens every single time!’

The fire started to weave little paths through all the dry stuff, first in one direction, then another. I stamped, but it flared up around my feet.

The little crowd of kids moved closer. Someone said, ‘Put it out!’

‘I’m totally trying!’

Sam hissed, ‘Oh no, no, no!’ And I carried on stamping. The fire took no notice. I danced about.

Sam emptied out a bottle of lemonade, but only killed about a centimetre. The rest of the fire flared up worse than ever. His forehead was as sweaty as mine and his lips were a thin, scared line.

I looked up, and there was Whizzy, hovering but small again, which was just as well – but everyone was looking at the fire. She was all jazzed and jerky. You could tell she was sorry. Then she shot to the top of one of the football floodlights and fed herself right inside it.

I felt sick. ‘Didn’t mean this to happen.’

And then someone from the bowling green came towards us carrying a fire extinguisher. Stiff brush-like side hair. Footsteps that scraped the ground, even here.

My face got even hotter. ‘Oh no, it’s Lombard! This is going to be Strike Three.’

Sam said nothing. He looked like he was about to puke.

‘Maybe if you tell him it wasn’t my fault. He likes you.’

Sam stuck his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders. He cleared his throat, and in a small, tight voice said, ‘Sorry, Alfie.’

‘Sam! Back me up!’

But he walked away.

I was left with a furious Mr Lombard, who put out the fire in a blast of white powdery smoke from the extinguisher.

‘You again!’ he said to me when it was done. ‘So gnashing about on private property got boring, did it? Moved on to public spaces, have you? Going in for extreme vandalism this time?’

‘No, I didn’t start this fire – it was an accident! My phone overheated and—’

‘I know your type,’ he said. ‘Knew it as soon as I clapped eyes on you.’

My phone had fizzled out by now. Shaking my head at Mr Lombard, I pocketed it. Despite the foam from the extinguisher, it was dry. Dread filled my lungs like a horrible sticky weight.

I forced my shaky legs to move and started to walk away, but Mr Lombard took hold of my arm. ‘You’re going nowhere, my lad.’ His spit rained down on me.

‘It’s fine now,’ I said, shrugging him off. My voice was thin and broken.