Omar gave him a small conspiratorial smile. ‘I said you had to stay back for extra after-school maths, after your lousy results in that last test.’

Sharif grinned. ‘You excellent little liar!’ he said with admiration, ‘Utterly believable and blameless. I owe you one, kid.’ He nudged Omar gratefully with his shoulder, lifting off the blood-soaked tissues experimentally. ‘So how did you know where I really was?’

Omar pulled out Sharif’s flyer, announcing the auditions,from his trouser pocket. He put it on the table, gently smoothing it out. ‘I saw it on the notice board outside the music room,’ he explained, before adding a touch reproachfully, ‘Why didn’t you tell me? I can play. I can play keyboards and guitar. And I’m a grade above everyone in our year, apart from you on the guitar.’

Sharif felt caught out, and said a touch shiftily, ‘Well, I didn’t think you’d be interested, and Indie rock bands don’t really need pianists, and we’ve already got two guitar players …’ he trailed off, as Omar was looking at him frankly and unconvinced, with dried blood sticking like rust to his nose and upper lip. ‘And the thing is, it’s not just about playing, you’ve got to be, well, a bit cool to be in a band.’

’Like you and Micky?’ asked Omar.

‘Like me and Micky,’ agreed Sharif. ‘Micky might be a third year, but he’s almost the same age as us, and he’s bloody hard. When he gets a bloody nose, it’s not from a friggin’ stress-induced nosebleed.’

‘I can be hard,’ said Omar crossly. ‘I hit Tariq back when he punched me at football practice. I punched him so hard I broke my thumb and had to go to Casualty.’ He pounded his fist lightly into his palm at the memory.

Sharif looked at this innocent gesture and said pityingly, almost kindly, ‘You didn’t go to Casualty because you hit him hard, kid. You broke your thumb because you don’t even know how to make a bloody fist.’ He took hold of Omar’s still clenched right hand, and said, ‘For a bright boy sometimes you bloody baffle me. Look, kid. Look at what you’re doing. Your thumb is meant to go on the outside, Omar. Put it on the outside!’

Omar splayed his hand and looked thoughtful as he flexed his fingers and put them back into a fist, this time with the thumb on the outside, instead of neatly tucked in as he had it before. ‘It doesn’t feel right,’ he confessed humbly. ‘God, I’m rubbish. Why didn’t you tell me before?’