‘Years ten and eleven, this is not acceptable!’ Mr Byrne roared.

Only the first few rows could hear his voice over the alarm, and the kids were riled up, debating the merits of prom vs protest.

‘It doesn’t matter for you because you get your leavers’ prom next year,’ a year-eleven girl near to Georgia was telling a bunch of younger girls. ‘My mum’s been paying for my dress in instalments …’

As the noise swelled, the senior teachers up front didn’t seem sure what to do. The threat had made an impression, but the emergency assembly hadn’t struck fear into the kids the way they’d hoped and Maya setting off the exit alarm made it difficult to assert control.

‘No cuts, no budget!’ more kids than ever chanted, but at the same time a group had worked themselves into hysterics over the idea that prom might get cancelled.

Finally, a PE teacher found the key to shut off the exit alarm and heads of year ten and eleven decided the only option was to send the kids back to class and deal with them in smaller groups.

‘In an orderly fashion,’ they emphasised.

Georgia wondered where Maya had gone as she crossed school grounds to third period chemistry.

It seemed assemblies with the other year groups hadn’t gone the way the staff hoped either. Year-nine boys were racing down hallways, banging lockers and chanting, ‘Riot, riot, lunchtime riot!’

When Georgia bumped into a couple of Rolf’s mates, they were fuming because they’d been told year-twelve and thirteen kids would have to stay in school at lunchtime.

The whole building had an edgy vibe. Teachers knew they were close to losing control as kids meandered back to lessons and piled into the toilets. More than half of third period was gone by the time Georgia got into her chemistry classroom, and there were still doors banging and teachers in the hallway, yelling at kids to get inside classrooms.

Two goth boys who always sat opposite Georgia in chemistry gave her a smile as she settled on her stool.

‘There’s twenty kids for every teacher,’ one goth told his pal. ‘They’re not cops; they don’t have weapons. They’re not even allowed to touch us. If school kicks off when the lunchtime bell goes, what can they actually do?’

THIRTY-FOUR

Akure’s Old Town was eerie. Wind ripped across the precinct, a sound usually blotted by motorbikes, horns and haggling stallholders. Only the birds were out, and even they seemed bewildered by the lack of humans.

Most shops were closed, but Julius noticed one with the grille over the entrance open and a rotating rack hung with canvas shoes inside. The owner came to unlock the inner door when he saw the barefoot brothers.

‘Here to stop looters,’ the owner said, resting his shotgun against a counter as he took a bolt off the door.