Dillon’s hands are in his pockets. He feels the cracked face of his phone under his fingertips. He feels his dad’s message etched forever under the glass, secret and awful.

‘Dillon?’

He says nothing. The square of rough grass at the front of the empty flat is littered with furniture. Six months ago, one of their kitchen chairs broke, so his dad left it there. The chair went from being a part of their home, the chair they all sat on, with a kind of character and life of its own, to being a dead thing. For a moment it looked out of place, rescuable, but by the morning, Dillon could see it was just junk.

‘Dillon?’

He blinks.

‘What do you want to do, you prick?’ Alisha laughs.

He looks away. Refocuses. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Properly.’ Alisha is serious now. ‘What do you want to do? Why are you even going to sixth form?’

Dillon shrugs. He smiles uneasily, looks down at his feet.

Alisha frowns as she stares at him.

‘Me too,’ she says.

In his pocket, against the warm tips of his fingers, Dillon’s phone vibrates. He pulls his hand away as if burnt.

On the last day of term, just before Christmas, there is a party at Yannis’s house. Everyone says it is a good party. Three emo kids sit on a sofa in the front room the whole night. No one sees them talking. Reece and Ceri have sex in the spare bedroom. It’s Reece’s first time. His friends wait outside. There is no evidence that they have had sex, but there is also no evidence that they haven’t. Ryan gets spiked, and spends the night dancing like a maniac. It’s fucking hilarious. Everyone says so.

The best photos that everyone shares afterwards include: several fit girls pouting at the camera; someone’s butt; someone’s breast; unexpected people doing gang signs; someone comatose; two people kissing.

At nine thirty Dillon waits in the lit-up front garden, all sharp lines and shadows, neat gravel and round bushes. The sound of the party throbs inside. He has been waiting for five minutes. Eventually he steps forward and knocks. The door opens, letting out warmth, noise, the smile of Xan, Yannis’s sister, her legs long and her lips vivid.

He walks in.

The kitchen. A big, wide space, with painted doors and a granite surface. Halls and corridors. A room where people dance – not now, later. Carpets with stains. Strange smells in the bathrooms, potions and vomit. People he knows, transformed. Girls with hair curled, faces smudged. Boys with eyes glazed and hectic. Teeth everywhere.

People are talking. The music is loud, and they talk loud.

‘Did you see that thing with the monkey?’

‘No.’

‘Fucking funny.’

The boys plant their legs wide. They stand like soldiers, self-consciously at ease. The girls look round, to see who’s seeing who. They touch shoulders, elbows.