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cool it. He didn’t want to risk his pension by falling foul of his bosses at D.E.A.D. and getting sacked for whomping a kid. Besides, he knew far more effective ways of disciplining an errant student.
    Like the guillotine.
    â€˜I’m going to chop your head off somany times you’ll think you’re a wheat crop being harvested!’ hissed Grimsweather. ‘Your mother’ll have to donate your hat collection to the Salvos, because you’ll have nothing to hang them on when I’m done with you.’
    â€˜Please, sir,’ came the muffled howl from Dandyline. ‘Mercy.’
    â€˜Mercy!’ shouted Grimsweather, ‘Mercy? Yes, I’ll show you mercy, but you’ll have to earn it. You like to play handball, eh?’
    â€˜No, sir,’ Dandyline winced, glancing up. ‘Yes, sir. Don’t know, sir.’
    â€˜I used to play handball, and I was first-rate too, until the Black Plague killed off all the decent opposition in my village.’ Grimsweather drifted off momentarily, reminiscing about the good old days of disease and famine before snapping back to reality. ‘I tell you what, Dandyline. Since I’m in a good mood, we’ll have a game. If you win, you live. If you lose … chop, chop.’
    â€˜Really, sir?’ said Dandyline, not sure if it was a trick. Despite being a total clyde ineverything else, he was a handy handball player, nearly as slick as Tony Bones-Jones, who looked set to tan this year’s championship.
    â€˜Yes, really,’ replied Grimsweather, looking almost human again. ‘Where’s your ball?’
    Dandyline tossed the tennis ball to Grimsweather.
    â€˜Death Castle rules,’ stated Grimsweather.
    â€˜Sure,’ Dandyline agreed, grinning, his plate-size teeth refracting the sunlight like a disco ball. Death Castle rules meant the winner was the first to one – a very sudden-death play-off.
    Grimsweather smiled coldly, drew a line down the middle of the room with a piece of chalk and pointed his finger. The ball leapt to his command and slammed across the room, shooting out towards the baseline. Instantly, Dandyline was lunging, grunting, contorting, diving, desperately returning the barrage of shots. He had the devil’s own job as the ball flipped around the room likea live swordfish, plunging high, low, left and right at near lightning speed, wherever Grimsweather pointed his finger.
    Ten, twenty, thirty plus times the ball crossed and re-crossed the line. Dandyline rushed around, sweating like a crooked cop in court for corruption, but Grimsweather didn’t have to move at all – he just wagged his finger and the ball bolted to wherever he pointed.
    Outside, a cloud shifted and the sun’s rays bounced off Dandyline’s choppers, beaming like a halogen searchlight straight into the Rollcall Master’s eyes and blinding Grimsweather as effectively as laser surgery without anaesthetic.
    â€˜Aaah!’ the teacher howled, collapsing in agony. ‘Aaaaaaaah!’
    Dandyline took careful aim as the ball landed on his side and walloped it deep into the back of Grimsweather’s side of the court, where it rolled slowly to the corner of the room and into a rat’s nest.
    â€˜I win, sir!’ Dandyline yelled delightedly. ‘I win! You have to let me go.’
    â€˜ What ?’ screeched Grimsweather, eyes scrunched closed in agony. ‘What? You cheated! You blinded me! Do you really think I’ll let you get away with that? What sort of lamebrain fool do you take me for, Dandyline?’
    â€˜I don’t know, sir,’ replied Dandyline. ‘I can’t read the label from here – and neither can you now.’
    Grimsweather nearly smiled, despite the savage, searing blindness, and he was calm when he finally spoke. ‘Give my regards to the guillotine operator, Dandyline. Lunchtime.’



The trouble started (as it often does in surly,