There was no crunch now. No rustle of movement anywhere in the building. For the time being he was safe.

Once dressed, he removed a short section of skirting board and slid out a loose brick from the wall. Behind it was the hiding place where he kept his valuables. He took out his penknife and torch and dropped them into his trouser pocket. Then he put everything back as it was and carefully opened his bedroom door. He kept the hinges and the handle well greased with bacon fat so that it opened without a sound. There was a creak and James paused. But it was only the 200-year-old building settling. He looked left and right down the corridor, which was lit by a dim electric light at either end. Another of Codrose’s ideas. The corridor was empty, apart from a big brown moth that sent huge shadows flapping across the dull green walls.

James’s room was on the top floor. To the right was a flight of narrow stairs and a wall separating the boys from Codrose’s part of the building. At the other end of the corridor was a storage room whose door was secured shut with a massive, rusty padlock. Halfway down was a washroom and on either side of it was a row of identical doors. Behind each door was a sleeping boy. But while they only dreamt of escape, for James it was a reality.

He always left a clear path through the sugar and soundlessly made his way along the corridor to the washroom. The hinges on this door were also well greased.

He slipped inside and closed the door behind him.

He didn’t risk turning on the light. He could make his way through here with his eyes closed, but there was enough of a glow from the moon through the windows to show him a row of tin basins, four big baths and, at the far end, the lavatory stalls. He tiptoed over the tiled floor towards the end stall and went in.

He fished his penknife out of his pocket, opened the blade and, crouching down, levered up a floor tile, exposing the floorboards beneath. Soon he had three more tiles up and he was able to remove a neatly cut square of boards.

It had taken him two sessions to work the tiles loose, slaving away in the dead of night, using tools filched from the School of Mechanics. And it had taken him a further week to cut through the boards underneath with his penknife, as a saw would have made too much noise. Twice he had nearly been found out. On the first occasion he had heard footsteps outside, but nobody had come in. On the second occasion, though, the door had opened. James just had time to replace the tiles, scoot up the walls of the stall like a monkey and wedge himself on top of the cistern before the lights were turned on and the familiar sound of Codrose’s dry cough had filled the night.