As the only white boy in the crowd, I obviously stood out. I could think of nothing better to do than to try and use that to my advantage. I’m tall for fourteen, but I crouched as I reached the edge of the crowd, and I did my best to look young and petrified – it wasn’t hard – in the hope one of the officers would take pity on me and let me pass.

My pathetic plan worked, but not how I’d expected it might. A protestor, not a policeman, helped me escape. He grabbed the scruff of my T-shirt and thrust me towards the shield wall, yelling, ‘Ce garçon n’a pas de place ici!’

I got the gist of that, and nodding, wide-eyed, I pushed forward. At first it seemed the policemen either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care. But then a crack between two of the shields widened just enough for me – with the help of a kick up the backside – to stagger through.

Once behind the police line I ran up and down it searching for Amelia in vain. I tried calling her number but she didn’t pick up. Huddles of reinforcement police were clumped along this side of the human barrier, waiting to take their turn in it. I asked one group if they’d seen a white girl my age come through, but a combination of my terrible French and the noise of the crowd drowning meant they just stared at me blankly. Should I wait and hope Amelia would be spat through a gap soon, or race back to the hotel to raise the alarm? Shaking all over and feeling like I was about to throw up, I decided on the latter, turned and ran.

41.

By the time I reached the hotel my face was slick with sweat and my T-shirt was sodden. I thundered through the lobby to the pool area and stopped dead. This was probably wise, since the security guard had already swung his gun in my direction. But that wasn’t what drew me up short. The sight of Amelia sitting on the edge of the pool did that. Relief flooded through me like iced water. My burning lungs emptied entirely. I thought I might collapse. The image of her there, unharmed, was as welcome a sight as I’d ever seen.

She spotted me, stood up and said, ‘You took your time.’

‘I couldn’t get across the square. It took ages. The cordon …’ I petered out.

‘You carried on? Well, that makes zero sense.’

‘Why?’

Infuriatingly patient, she replied, ‘If you were swimming the Channel and got cramp a quarter of the way across, you’d swim back to England rather than continue to France, wouldn’t you?’

‘The Channel? What are you on about?’

‘When we got split up, I went back the way we’d come without too much trouble.’