The Fire-Eaters by David Almond

them containing Todd and his strap. Sometimes words accompanied them, written on the walls beneath or scrawled across the photographs themselves. Simple words: EVIL, WICKED, CRUELTY, SIN. The photographs quickly became collectors' items. Those that weren't taken down by staff were hidden deep in satchels and workbags. The most famous image was of Todd and the Whitby twins, Julia and John. The twins had their hands out together, side by side. They leaned their heads together and closed their eyes as the black strap descended.
    In the classroom, Lubbock prowled through the aisles between our desks. His breath seethed.
    “I pray that there is no one in this room connected to this business,” he said. “There is a sly sneak at work. A serpent, a snake.” He cracked his knuckles. “We will draw him out. He will slither out into the light. And then …” He licked his lips and sighed. There was silence as we worked, drawing a map of Jesus' journeys through the Holy Land. Then a crash as Lubbock smashed his fist onto Dorothy Peacock's desk. We jumped. We stared at him, his bulging flushed face.
    “Mr. Todd,” he snarled, “is worth ten of any of you inside this place.”
    He swept his hand across Dorothy's work. Her book and pencils flew onto the floor.
    “Well!” he yelled. “What's the matter with you, girl? Pick them up! Pick them up!”
    Dorothy scuttled to pick them up. Daniel raised his hand. He was expressionless.
    “Sir!” he called.
    Lubbock watched him, said nothing.
    “Please, sir,” said Daniel. “Could you show us where it was that Jesus gave the Sermon on the Mount?”

T hat afternoon, a special assembly was called. The whole school was ushered by prefects and grim-faced teachers through silent corridors toward the hall. The teachers mounted the stage and sat on hard chairs facing us. Many of them had their black gowns on. Todd was in the front row. His head was tilted, his eyes were lowered, his chest kept rising as he sighed, as if he'd been deeply wronged, as if he was in pain. His strap was nowhere to be seen.
    Grace, the head, stepped forward. He carried a clutch of the photographs in his hand. He stared down at us for seconds; then he slowly started to rip the photographs. He bent forward and let the pieces fall into a waste bin at his feet.
    “These objects,” he said, “are worthy only of our contempt.”
    He wiped his hands together, as if cleaning away filth.
    “We are a community,” he continued. “It is our duty to care for each other, to protect each other, to ensure that none of us is made a victim of evil forces. When one of us is threatened, all of us are under threat.”
    He scanned our faces. “There is a wicked force at work inside our school,” he said. “We must not allow it to flourish. We must not allow it to corrupt us. The perpetrator—or perpetrators—of this evil may be standing beside you. Some of you will know who the perpetrators are. If you carry that knowledge, we call on you to speak up. Do not be intimidated. Your information will be received in confidence. At least one among you is that perpetrator. From you, whoever you are, we await a confession.”
    He was silent again. He searched our eyes. The teachers watched us. I felt my face burning. I looked downward.
    “There is no hiding place,” said Grace. “If shame will not drive you to us, then we shall search you out, just as the Lord searched out Adam and Eve in the Garden. Now, let us guide the sinner that is among us. We will recite the Confiteor.”
    And our voices joined together, began to groan the familiar prayer:
    “I confess to Almighty God, to Blessed Mary ever virgin …” Soon each of us made a fist. We beat ourhearts, as we'd learned to long ago, at the crucial words: “Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault.”
    Afterward, we were left standing for an hour. Grace walked among us. He barked at anyone who moved. He said that he would make our lives a hell. It