Many children have pulled the ‘I know we’ve just driven to school but I’m not going’ card, but Kari was probably the first to enforce the argument with a knife. She was pressing hard, for a child, and Haralda’s neck stung as the blade bit in. A trickle of blood ran down onto her cardigan.

Slowly, Haralda dabbed a finger in the blood and held it up to show Kari. 

"You’re hurting me," she said. "If you press any harder, you’re going to kill me."

I DON’T CARE, croaked Kari, her eyes glassed over. I’M NOT GOING TO SCHOOL.

Haralda sighed. "This is why children shouldn’t play with knives. I’m not trying to patronise you, young lady, but if you don’t like the idea of other people hurting you, why are you hurting me?"

YOU’RE HURTING ME! Kari’s eyes flashed with anger. PROPOSING TO SEND ME TO THIS INTERNMENT CAMP, WHERE I SHALL DIE AT THE HANDS OF THE INMATES. I WILL NOT GO GENTLE INTO THIS GOOD NIGHT, SCHOOLTEACHER.

Haralda wondered how the scruffy ten year old could have such an eloquent split personality. But no matter how Kari was trying to dress it up…

"You’re worried about bullies, aren’t you?" asked Haralda. "Don’t worry. There are no bullies in my school. But a bully who’s worried about being bullied is still just a bully. If you want to talk about this like respectable adults, then drop the knife. Otherwise, stand by your principles and kill me."

Kari pressed even harder. YOU CANNOT TRAP ME WITH YOUR ULTIMATUMS.

"Actually, young lady, it’s very simple. You kill me and remain the Djinn for the rest of your days, or you put down the knife and become Kari, the pretty schoolgirl with a bright future ahead of her. Oh, and I’m losing blood, so hurry up or time will choose for you."

Kari lowered the knife, but she didn’t put it away. She cast her gaze out into the playground, where a class of children were running around, giggling.

I SEE THEM. JOSTLING. HARASSING. EXTORTING. THEY DELIGHT IN TERRORISING EACH OTHER.

Haralda got a plaster out her glovebox and stuck it over the cut. "They’re playing soldiers. Look, they’re all smiling. It’s good character building."

PLAYING? THEY DO NOT HAVE INSTRUMENTS.

"Make-believe," explained Haralda. "We pretend to be someone we’re not, and it teaches us to understand the points of view of others."

IT IS AN ENFORCED LEARNING TOOL? asked Kari.

Out on the playground, a girl ran into the group, shouting, "Stop the war! Billy’s dropped his glasses!"

The English and the Germans scoured the football pitch to find them. After that, they shook hands, got into planes, and proceeded to shoot each other out of the sky.

"The children get a lot of joy from it," said Haralda. "Instead of looking for people hurting each other, why don’t you try and spot some compassion? Can you see anybody being kind to someone else?"

Fortuitously, a boy walked past handing out lollipops to all his friends.

"Okay," whispered Kari, looking down at her lap. "But I still don’t want to go."

The child seemed to be withering away in her seat. The strange, charged aura of violence evaporated.

"The way I see it," said Haralda, "The things that frighten us the most are the things we have to do. But you don’t have to go alone. You don’t even have to talk to anyone. Just… come with me, and see what you think. If you don’t like it, you can leave. Does that sound okay? Do you want to try?"

Kari looked again at the children with a kind of detached wistfulness, and she wiped a tear from her eye. She nodded.

Haralda discreetly popped the BARDEN TEACHER’S HANDBOOK: TALKING POINTS FOR RELUCTANT STUDENTS back in her skirt pocket. It was all there in the manual, and she would know. She’d written it.

Kari clung to her sleeve as they marched into reception, to a chorus of ‘Good morning, Madame Gunmetal’ from the children streaming past. Haralda greeted each one by name. Certain troublesome little boys and girls shied away from her like vampires from garlic, but she said good morning to them anyway, because they knew their days were numbered. A whisper rippled throughout the school:

"Did you hear there’s a new student?"

"I saw her! She came in with Madame Gunmetal!"

"Is she her daughter?"

“Why has Madame Gunmetal got a big whiteboard thing on her back?”

Reception was off limits to children — a quiet space with a fish tank, some chairs, and a counter. The young receptionist, Anton, wore a dress shirt unbuttoned in the Italian style, which was to say he looked like a stripper. The mums had all grumbled about this particular diversity hire until he’d started flirting with them, after which they’d fought so fiercely to pick up each other’s sick kids that they’d had to reorganise it into a lottery system. The man had broken several marriages, and, in a memorable case where he’d slept with both the husband and the wife, saved one.

"Good morning, Haralda," said Anton, looking up from a book with softcore pornography on the cover. "Ooh, is that a new student?"

Haralda stared at him until he buttoned up his shirt, put on a tie, and put the book in a drawer. Kari hid behind her.

"This is my niece, Kari Gunmetal," she said. "We’ll sort the paperwork retroactively. I need something from you, Anton."

"Ooh, my dear," said Anton, blushing. "I thought you’d never ask!"

"Behave yourself," she snapped. "Just because we share the same taste in literature does not mean you have job security."

He nodded, sultry.

"I’m looking for a French man. Perhaps he’s one of the parents. Perhaps a contractor."

He raised his eyebrows and winked, breaking out into a shit-eating grin.

"Well?" she barked. "You’re the administrator, how many French men do we have on record?"

He tapped something into a computer — the man had made himself indispensable by automating their entire database to give himself more time to read on the job — and within seconds, he told her, "We’ve got fifteen French children at the school, and contact details for their parents, as well. If you want my opinion on which dad has the nicest arse… well…"

"Enough!" she snapped, well aware that the arrow on the remote was trying to nudge her away from reception. "If any of them calls the school or comes in, I want to be the first to hear about it. Is that clear?"

He nodded, seductive. Haralda was disgusted that anyone could find that attractive.

She took Kari by the hand, and before leaving, turned and said, "Thank you, by the way, for your comments on my review of The Time Traveller’s Mistress. I found your interpretation of Darlington’s character very… well."

"Any time!" He smiled and went back to his book.

They marched on through the corridors, where children were waiting for classes to begin. As they walked by, a spell fell over them, and the unruly crowds straightened out into uniform lines, each and every child hailing Madame Gunmetal. The classes further down the corridor heard her name and were in position long before she got to them.

She swung open the door to the staff room, which she thought of privately as the war room.

"Thank goodness you’re here," said three different teachers, forming an orderly queue. 

Amy, the Year 3 teacher, was first. "Haralda, we’ve had a lot of children running around during the building at break time, and it’s a health and safety nightmare trying to get them supervised. The rota’s stretched thin as it is, and we can’t spare the staff."

Haralda flipped to the floorplan of the school on her clipboard, and studied it. There were a lot of different doors into the building from the playground, and it would be impossible to guard all of them.

She said, "We can’t lock any doors because of fire safety. But I’ll get the caretaker to put traffic cones in front of here, here, and here, and at breaktime I will personally guard the bottleneck and see to it that every child has a good reason for passing through."

"Thanks, Haralda," said Amy, smiling. "Is this the new student I’ve been hearing about? And what is that on your back?"

"Your class is waiting for you, Amy."

"Oh, right, yes," she said, and blustered out the door.

Next up was Florence, the servile, withering, namby pamby Headteacher. The best thing Haralda could say about her was that she was photogenic.

"We’ve got a problem with the school dinners," squeaked Florence. "The caterers are saying they haven’t been delivered enough stock, and—"

"Have you called up the logistics company?" asked Haralda.

Florence shrank into herself. "Well, no, not yet, I don’t see any reason to jump to conclusions, I mean—"

"They are receiving the taxpayer’s money to feed our children!" barked Haralda. "You can’t stand idly by while they profiteer. Call them up and demand a new delivery right now. If they don’t want to listen, then we’re calling up Pizza House and sending them the bill. I won’t have our children going hungry."

"Y-yes," said Florence. "Can I say that if they don’t, then I’ll put you on the line?"

"Of course, now what are you waiting for? Go!"

Florence held up the edges of her skirt as she half ran to her office and closed the door. Haralda shook her head — useless woman, but somehow she had a knack with children, like the Pied Piper. Even Kari was staring after her, wide-eyed.

Finally, with the staffroom near empty, the teachers having gone to their classes, there remained Lizzie, the Year 6 teacher, who was trembling. She was one of the new teachers, freshly graduated, and she dressed Victorian, demure.

"Is everything quite alright?" asked Haralda. After confirming it was appropriate in the Handbook, she put a hand on her shoulder.

"It’s silly," said Lizzie. "I know it’s silly, but I don’t feel like I have control of the class."

"Are they giving you trouble?" 

"Last week, when we did music, oh, it’s stupid, but I couldn’t control them, Haralda — they were running wild, smashing the recorders against the windows — and when I raised my voice, they just laughed at me!"

"Why didn’t you make a report about this?" asked Haralda. "It’s the Brick Gang, right?"

Lizzie tried to reply, but found herself choking back tears.

"I won’t have any of my teachers afraid to go to work," said Haralda. "Come on. Have you got today planned out?"

She held up her paperwork — meticulous. To think that a few little tykes could turn such an intelligent, dutiful woman into a snivelling mess. It wasn’t an injustice Haralda intended to tolerate.

She said, "Would it make it easier if I sat in your class?"

"Yes," said Lizzie. "I’m… I’m not being weak, am I? It’s those kids! They’re completely out of control!"

“Crush them,” suggested Kari, grinning.

“What?” 

Haralda took great satisfaction in remembering how well-behaved the class had been at the end of the day.

"Right,” she said, rolling up her sleeves. “Come along.”