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Oliver heard him chanting, “One, two, three…” It reminded him of hide and seek. In less than a minute he was hidden in the trees, well off Donal Morrissey’s “land”, that pathetic, wind-blown plot of poor soil, planted so lovingly, marooned in the middle of the O’Malleys’ fields. You’d think it was a thousand acres, from his crazy behaviour.
    But Oliver knew what he had to do. Old people had funny ideas sometimes, and they often got frightened whenyou were only trying to help them. Donal Morrissey was nearly ninety and wouldn’t respond to common sense any more. Drastic measures were called for.
    He went straight back to the bungalow. There was no need to bother Mrs O’Malley, he could let himself in with the spare key. It hung inside one of the kitchen cupboards and Oliver had pocketed it that morning. This was the kind of sneaky behaviour that made his mother angry. “He needs watching,” she’d warned her niece Jeannie, when they were discussing the holiday. “Once that child gets an idea in his head there’s no stopping him. ” Mrs Blakeman had only half-listened. She liked Aunt Phyl but she did fuss over children.
    As he got everything ready Oliver thought about his two cousins, shinning athletically up the walls of some ghastly tunnel. And he’d given them the slip. He grinned to himself as he stuffed matches into his anorak pocket and poked around in the utility room for the vital cans. He found them among paint pots and household cleaners and also a garden broom, propped in a corner. That might just be useful.
    Before setting off he had a final look at his Naturalist’s Pocket Book , then at the jar. The green plant the bugs were feeding on was starting to wilt and turn yellow. They would die soon.
    He looked at Colin’s bare mattress. The sheets and blankets lay on the floor in a grubby heap with the dog’s pawmarks all over them. He’d said something about waking up in the night because the bed was damp and the room smelt musty, and he’d mentioned an awful smell outside.Oliver couldn’t understand it. Everything looked perfectly normal to him, and Colin was such a hard-headed, no-nonsense type, a bit like his own mother.
    But those sheets weren’t fit to sleep in. Oliver decided to be forgiving and to try and please everybody. He bundled them up, took them to the kitchen, and set the washing machine going. He knew exactly what to do. One of his jobs at home was putting the washing through. Then he went back to his bedroom and inspected the jar again. After a minute’s hesitation he decided to take it with him. He picked it up and went outside. It was nearly half past four. With luck, Donal Morrissey would be on his way to the O’Malleys to help with the evening milking.
    Before he struck his first match, Oliver checked and double checked. All the affected plants were thoroughly soaked and the two cans empty. It was so dry that what he had to do wouldn’t take long. The leaves would catch and be scorched, the pests would perish, and anything worth eating could still be pulled up. He knew all about burning the fields at the end of summer; “swaling” it was called in Cheshire, where his father had been brought up on a farm.
    The air was still. He’d checked that. They didn’t burn the fields when a high wind was blowing. Carefully, but with a certain excitement, he slid open the matchbox.
    Within seconds the whole of Donal Morrissey’s vegetable patch was ablaze. Oliver stood by the caravan and watched it burning; there was much more smoke than he’d expected andthe plants gave off a bitter smell that caught at his throat and made his eyes water. It was going well. Very soon the whole thing would be over. The old man would thank him for this in time; he was doing what Donal Morrissey couldn’t or wouldn’t do. He was cleansing the earth with fire.
    He felt somehow triumphant. Without really thinking what he was doing, he unsealed the glass jar, pulled out the yellowing