Eve White: Literary Agent

from CAPTAIN VALIANT AND THE PIRATES OF MARS

“Alright, lads, which one of you set fire to Mr Trimble’s shorts?” Mr Booth, our new Headteacher, was a small man with a shiny, bald head. He didn’t seem to have a neck or legs. His head sat on top of his shoulders and his feet stuck out from under his belly. His shirts did their best to hold his stomach in but, more often than not, they failed. It wasn’t unusual to be hit by a flying button when he bent down or stood up. Waddling along the line, he gave each boy a hard stare as if trying to find out what had happened by reading it on their faces. “Now come on, lads, I know it was one of you. Someone set fire to Mr Trimble’s shorts.” It was me, of course. Mr Trimble wouldn’t have a burnt bum if I weren’t a superhero. “Look,” Mr Booth said, “no one’s going to get in any trouble as long as someone owns up to it. I’m sure it was an accident.” Mr Trimble peered round the edge of the shower cubicle where cold water hissed over his backside. “It wasn’t an accident,” he said. “It was deliberate.” No, it really was an accident. It wasn’t as if I planned to set fire to Mr Trimble’s shorts. It was the black flame. Most of the time I could control it but there were other times when it seemed to have a mind of its own. If I let my thoughts wander or I started to daydream the black flame reacted to what I was thinking. And when Mr Trimble climbed up the rope, telling us how easy it was, I imagined what it would be like if his shorts were on fire. Mr Trimble came out of the shower with a towel wrapped round his waist. “Call the police,” he said. “I want all of them charged with assault.”