‘Reviews, fashion, the Oscars – stuff like that. Her magazine covers the BAFTAs. She’ll know film people. The media world’s a pretty small one. Everyone needs everyone else.’

He talks to Alisha about it later on the bench outside Tesco.

‘I’m going into film,’ he says.

‘Eh?’

‘That’s what I’m going to do. After school.’

‘Like, Hollywood?’

‘I don’t know. Probably not. But I’m going to make films. I’m going to ask that magazine woman if she’ll help.’

Alisha gives Dillon a look of measured approval. ‘Fair enough.’

The street is bright and sunny. Anything seems possible.

‘Shall we get some weed?’ says Alisha.

They text Jack. He’s at work. He says he’ll meet them at six at the arches. They have an hour to kill. They spend twenty minutes in Poundland, laughing at the own-brand stuff, then throw things off the bridge. The water is strong and fresh. Farther up, the woods are fuzzed and green, with that strong, bright, liquid green of spring.

Along the banks of the river are daffodils.

‘Daffodils are shit plants,’ says Alisha.

‘Seriously?’ Dillon plays shocked. ‘Daffodils? What’s wrong with you?’

She laughs. He throws a can in the water. They watch it bob away.

‘Did we ever kiss?’ asks Alisha as they walk down under the arch.

Dillon feels dizzy. ‘What?’

‘Did we kiss? You kissed Oni.’

Dillon tries to laugh. ‘No.’ He makes it sound like he’s disgusted.

Alisha doesn’t laugh. ‘I just wondered.’

He doesn’t look at her, but he can feel her there like an itch. He has no idea why she said that. He has no idea if it means anything. He has no idea if he wants it to mean anything.

He has the familiar sense that he often gets around girls, of being both wildly excited and utterly terrified. There is a kind of lurching thud around his heart. Offbeat.

‘All right,’ says Jack, coming down the path behind them.

Callum is with him. ‘All right.’

They’re looking at something on Callum’s phone. Callum turns the screen round.

‘Unbelievable,’ he says, grinning.

On the screen is a woman, splayed, someone’s arm in her cunt up beyond the wrist.

Dillon looks away.

‘Dickhead,’ says Alisha.

‘You don’t like pussy?’ says Callum to Dillon.

Dillon says nothing.

Callum chuckles.

‘Dickhead,’ repeats Alisha.

They buy a bag off Jack. Then they skin up. The four of them share the joint.

When Dillon draws on it, he imagines the slow spread of smoke through his limbs. He exhales smoothly. The wet stone of the arch glints.

‘Nice,’ he says.

Callum doubles up with laughter. ‘Nice,’ he says.

Dillon frowns. He doesn’t know what was funny. But Jack is giggling too.

‘Nice,’ they say to each other, lips pursed, frowning. Dillon smiles, because it’s the way of these things. The joint comes round again. He draws deeply. His head fuzzes up.