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and what we’re going to do is—’
    ‘I don’t believe it!’ said a voice.
    ‘Hi, Cyd!’ Archie gave his friend a little wave.
    ‘What are you doing in bed?’ demanded Cyd.
    ‘I’m going to have an operation!’ said Archie. ‘On my head!
    Cyd stared coldly at the doctor. ‘What’ve you done to him?’ she demanded.
    ‘We haven’t done anything yet,’ said the doctor, ‘but, as I was just explaining, the pains Archie’s been getting are caused by a blood clot in his skull. So we’re going to put him to sleep, drill a little hole in the back of his head and—’
    ‘No,’ said Cyd, firmly. ‘No, you’re not.’
    ‘It’s all right.’ The tall nurse put a hand on Cyd’s shoulder. ‘He won’t feel a thing, I promise.’
    ‘He won’t feel anything,’ said Cyd, ‘because you’re not going to operate on him. There’s obviously been a mistake.’

    ‘We don’t make mistakes at St James’s,’ said the doctor, stiffly. ‘Your friend was brought in last night and—’
    ‘My friend was not brought in last night,’ said Cyd. ‘He came in this morning with me to visit our teacher, and until half an hour ago he was absolutely fine. I don’t know how he got into this bed, or why you want to drill a hole in his head, but you’re not going to.’
    ‘I’ll call security,’ said the nurse.
    ‘How about you wait,’ said Cyd, ‘until you’ve checked if what I said is true. It won’t be very difficult. You can ask our teacher, who’s in the ward down the corridor. You can phone Archie’s parents – I’ve got his number here – or you can talk to my mother, who’s down in the nurse’s restroom. You can do any of those things but there is no way I’m letting you do an operation on my friend Archie Coates.’
    There was a moment’s silence as the doctor looked at his clipboard, and then at the nurse.
    ‘Coates?’ he said, eventually. ‘It says on my form that his name is Archie Duffen . . .’

    ‘I cannot believe it!’ A small man with a moustache was pacing up and down behind his desk. ‘I still cannot believe a mistake like this could happen in my hospital!’
    On the other side of the desk, Cyd and Archie were sitting on a large sofa, with a table in front of them laid with plates of sandwiches, packets of crisps and a selection of cans of drink.
    ‘Never mind,’ said Archie. ‘These things happen.’
    He was dressed in his clothes again now – all except for his socks, which no one had been able to find – and the medicine had not entirely worn off.

    ‘What
did
happen exactly?’ asked Cyd.
    ‘You may well ask,’ said the man with the moustache. ‘It seems that Archie Duffen, who is about the same age as Archie here, was brought in last night complaining of pains in his head. We took some X-rays, found a blood clot and realized he needed an operation. He was supposed to have it this morning.’
    ‘So why wasn’t he in his room?’ asked Cyd.
    ‘He’d been sent down for some more X-rays ,’ the man with the moustache explained. ‘And he should have been back, but unfortunately the porter who was sent to get him slipped on a pool of water in the corridor, and had to be taken in for treatment himself. In the meantime, of course, a trainee nurse had put your Archie into his room, and when the nurse came in to give the other Archie his medicine – she’d only just come on duty – she naturally assumed that Archie was, well, Archie . . .’
    ‘Simple mistake,’ said Archie, helping himself to another sandwich. ‘Could have happened to anyone.’
    ‘It’s very nice of you to say so,’ said the man with the moustache, ‘and I do appreciate it. I just wish there was something I could do to make it up to you.’
    Archie was about to say that there was no need, when Cyd spoke for him.
    ‘As a matter of fact,’ she said. ‘There is one thing . . .’

    Later, when Cyd and Archie were walking home, Cyd got a text on her mobile.
    ‘It’s all sorted,’