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rather like a puppy. Just as she thought she had the right phrase, she noticed a new detail of the devastation. At last the
fuel ran out and the engine stopped.
    ‘We’ll tidy up,’ said Sam. ‘It looks worse than it is, but honestly, we’ve been doing this at home all over Christmas.’
    ‘We always clear up,’ cried Ruskin. ‘I say, are you alright?’
    The receptionist was hyperventilating. She had seen the black gash in the peacock-blue carpet. Now she saw black smoke rising from the skirting-board.
    ‘You need to sit down,’ said Millie.
    The receptionist looked up and noticed that the room’s smoke alarm had been disabled: the wires hung out and the battery was gone. It was just as well, because acrid smoke hung under the
ceiling – there was a breeze from outside and a wisp was blown into the corridor. The man in pyjamas was picking his way over the debris, his hands on his head. Unseen, the smoke continued to
billow through the open doorway.
    The receptionist’s head started to jerk. She stepped into the room and found that her shoulders were locked up around her ears. Her fingers were splayed out in front of her chest as well,
as if for protection. She looked up at Oli, sitting high on the TV, and his bug-eyes stared into hers. ‘Can you help me down?’ he said.
    At that moment, the smoke alarm in the corridor decided it had had enough. There were various types of smoke all mixed together in a rich cocktail: now was the time to warn the world. An
ear-splitting shriek blared from every speaker and then it settled into stabbing squeals that split the ear. Within five seconds doors were opening, and the noise jerked the receptionist back into
action. At least this was a situation she’d been trained to deal with – there were routines for fire alarms.
    ‘Outside,’ she said. ‘Quickly!’
    ‘Why?’ said Ruskin.
    ‘Fire alarm. Car park. Everyone!’
    ‘There’s no fire,’ said Millie. ‘It’s engine smoke – you can see it.’
    In fact, there was a fire, though it was fairly small at present. The skirting-board had been so scorched by Millie’s drilling that flames were appearing. The wallpaper above was
vinyl and it was beginning to melt. A sheet on a nearby chair was getting warmer and would burst into flames very soon.
    ‘Car park!’ said the receptionist. ‘Come on, quickly! Car park! Fire!’ She had to shout over the din. The corridor behind her was now full of people, peering at the
children.
    ‘Get outside!’ said the man. ‘Do as you’re bloody told, all of you! Outside!’
    The children grabbed their blazers and meekly left the room. They joined a line of hurrying people, all shrugging themselves into coats.
    ‘Sam,’ shouted Oli. He was being hustled away by the receptionist, but Sam was still kicking on his shoes. ‘Don’t leave the toys! Get the toys! Wait,’ he said.
    But his voice wasn’t strong enough and he was lost in a river of foul-tempered adults.
    Oli Ruskin was just nine-and-a-half years old and had built all three radio-controlled vehicles with his own hands. His brother and Sam had helped, but he’d seen the project through from
inception, so he felt the pure love of ownership. He’d washed cars, cleaned windows, and walked dogs to raise the money. He had a paper-round every morning, with a bag so huge and heavy he
could barely lift it. The thought of his precious models being in an unlocked room made him breathless with panic, but what could he do? He was being herded along the corridor.
    ‘Jake,’ he said to his brother.
    Ruskin didn’t hear. He was saying something to Millie and the alarms had now switched to an urgent, angry throb that was guaranteed to make you panic. More and more people were emerging,
and when they reached the reception area, it was packed. People were doubling back to get warm clothes, parents were calling after children, and another receptionist had appeared and was screaming,
‘It’s not a practice!’ over