‘Okay,’ said Andrew. ‘You see this ball?’

I did. We were in my back garden, it was at his feet and round, which was a dead giveaway. I nodded.

‘All right,’ he continued. ‘Now listen carefully and use your imagination. I know you have a great imagination because you keep getting straight As in English and annoying everyone.’

It was true.

‘I’m going to kick this ball as hard as I can,’ said Andrew, ‘and do you know why?’

I didn’t and confessed it.

‘Because I hate Destry Camberwick and she is standing behind you—’

I turned because you never know, but this was an imagination thing.

‘—and this ball is going to hit her straight in her stupid, ugly face. There’s only one person who can stop that happening, Rob. Who is it?’

‘Well, if we’re being logical, it would be you, Andrew. Because if you choose not to do it …’

Andrew put his hands on his hips.

‘Okay, me,’ I said. ‘I am the guardian, the keeper of her face.’

‘Only you.’

‘Only me.’

‘“I will not let her face suffer!” Say it.’

‘I will not let her face suffer!’

‘Louder!’

‘I WILL NOT LET HER FACE SUFFER.’

Andrew took a couple of paces back and then kicked the ball. I should say that my best friend is a very good soccer player. (He’s very good at all sports – one of the reasons, he claims, why he’s so successful with girls. If he wasn’t my best friend, I’d probably hate him.) The ball screamed towards me, to my right and at about head height.

Andrew was right. My imagination is such that English teachers discuss it enthusiastically in staffrooms, which probably only proves they should get out more. I could see the ball hurtling towards Destry’s face – Destry’s poor, sweet, perfect face – and there was no time to think. I had to act. I took off to my right like a springbok or, if not a springbok, then some other animal known for being nifty at jumping. I spread my arms. I might even have shouted, ‘I WILL NOT LET HER FACE SUFFER,’ but I can’t swear to that.

Someone should have videoed the entire sequence. It would have looked splendid in slow motion.

The ball hit me in the face, ricocheted off our Hill’s Hoist and crashed through next door’s bathroom window.

‘Blankety hell,’ said Andrew. ‘Run.’

We did, but my head was really hurting and one eye was already closing, so I only ran into the Hill’s Hoist and knocked myself out. I don’t know why I was running anyway. I lived there and Mum was watching us through the kitchen window, so it’s not like I could establish an alibi that would stand up in court.