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‘I want my blood back,’ he said.

Olive laughed. ‘Why? Why do you want it back?’

‘I want it injected back in,’ said Bertie. ‘You didn’t ask me properly before you took it.’

Olive laughed, screwing up her eyes in amusement. ‘Oh, Bertie,’ she crowed, ‘you’re so silly! Everybody knows that blood goes dry and hard after a while, especially your yucky sort of blood. You can’t put it back in.’

Bertie frowned. Every day on the bus he went past the Blood Transfusion Service in Lauriston Place. He had asked his mother about this, and it had been explained to him that blood was taken there and stored until needed for transfusion. Olive, he thought, was clearly lying.

‘What about blood transfusions, then?’ he challenged. ‘Don’t you know about those?’

Olive, who could not bear to be bettered in any discussion, took a moment or two to compose herself. ‘Those are different,’ she said. ‘I would have thought that you would have known how they do that.’

Bertie waited for her to continue, but she did not.

‘Well?’ he said. ‘How are they different?’

Olive waved a hand airily. ‘I haven’t got time to go into all that,’ she said. ‘I need to talk to you about the tests I did. I did some tests, you see, then I threw your blood away. Into the rubbish bin, in fact.’

Bertie glared at her in anger. But he was experiencing another emotion too – anxiety. One part of him did not believe that Olive had been able to carry out any tests at all, but another remembered advertisements he had seen for various home-testing kits. It was just possible, perhaps, that Olive had got her hands on one of these and had subjected his blood sample to some procedure or other. He shuddered.

‘Worried?’ asked Olive. ‘Well, that’s quite understandable, Bertie. It’s not knowing that’s the worst. That’s what everybody says.’

‘Not knowing what?’ asked Bertie. He tried to sound strong and insouciant, but that was not how his voice came out.

‘Not knowing the result of a test,’ said Olive calmly. ‘But you mustn’t worry too much, Bertie – yet. I promise I’ll tell you gently.’

He gasped. He opened his mouth to say something, but Olive silenced him. ‘Not very good news, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘You’ve tested positive for leprosy. Sorry about that, Bertie.’

Bertie stared at Olive. He looked at her fingers, hoping that he would see them crossed – a sure sign that she was telling lies. But there was no sign of that. All he saw was Olive looking at him sympathetically, a concerned frown on her brow.

‘Leprosy is a very serious disease,’ Olive went on. ‘It’s quite rare these days, you know. There’s hardly any at the school.’

‘What happens . . . ?’ Bertie stuttered.

‘Well,’ said Olive. ‘Your nose can fall off. And your fingers too. It’s not very nice. That’s why lepers are given a bell. They ring it to warn people to keep away.’

Bertie reached up and felt his nose. It seemed to be fastened securely enough. He looked at his fingers again; these seemed unaffected.

‘How do you catch it?’ Bertie asked.

‘I’ve been reading about it in the encyclopaedia,’ said Olive. ‘They say that it’s very difficult to get. You have to have very close contact with somebody who has it.’

‘By shaking hands?’ asked Bertie. If that was so, then Tofu would have it too. He and Bertie had shaken hands the previous day when they had agreed to swap comics. Would this mean that Tofu would have leprosy too?

As it happened, Tofu was now making his way across the playground to join them.

‘What’s going on here?’ he asked.

‘Olive says that I’ve got leprosy,’ said Bertie. And then he added: ‘And if I have, then you might have it too, Tofu. I shook hands with you yesterday, remember?’

Tofu looked at Olive, who stared back at him defiantly, as would one who had science on her side. ‘Oh yes?’ he said. ‘And can you get it from the spit of somebody who’s got it?’

‘Of course,’ said Olive. ‘That’s an easy way to get it.’

Tofu smiled at Bertie, and then turned back to face Olive. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘you’ve got it too!’

And with that, he spat at her.

Olive screamed. It was an