A knock on the door. Paula’s struggling with the staffing allocation. How to fit the staff you have into the demands of the curriculum you want. Twenty-six lessons per teacher, less for those with additional responsibilities. Then students choose what they want to study, at GCSE and A-level, and you have to readjust. Sometimes people have to go.

‘Come in.’

Will Bradman pokes his head round the door. ‘Have you got a moment?’

She folds the A3 sheet away. ‘How can I help?’

Will hesitates.

‘Sit down.’

He does.

‘You know Rose? Who went to London with your friend?’

She does. He starts to talk. It takes her a while to unpick the elements at play. He starts at the end, then cycles back to the beginning. She has to ask him to clarify some basic things.

‘Her photo was put on social media?’

‘Yes.’

‘When?’

‘Three days ago.’

‘And when did you become aware of this?’

‘That’s what I mean. Three days ago.’ He gives it some thought. ‘Monday.’

‘And all the students know?’

He nods.

‘And her carer?’

‘I don’t know. I presume so.’

‘You didn’t tell him?’

Will is startled at that. ‘No. Should I have?’

Paula makes a small movement with her mouth that expresses (in her mind) yes, you bloody should have. But it pays sometimes to hold back.

‘And now someone has put another photo up?’

He nods.

‘Same site?’

‘No. This is separate. Another student showed me. It was doing the rounds on a closed network.’

‘So, not public?’

‘A lot of people have seen it.’

‘Can I see?’

He hands over his phone. ‘It’s not unusual. I mean, I know the kids do this kind of thing. I just …’ . He looks worried, like he’s only now realising he should have been paying attention. ‘It’s been photoshopped,’ he says, nervously.

‘Yes. I can see that.’

Rose’s elegant, carefully made-up face, glancing over her shoulder, is superimposed upon a splayed body with a fist disappearing into a shaved vagina.

‘And who posted this?’

Will made a helpless gesture. ‘This is a screenshot of a post, and I can’t see the name on it.’

Paula sighs. ‘We’ll find out.’ She opens her laptop. ‘Will you send me an email with all the details, and the image. Copy in George.’

Will stands.

‘Thanks for letting me know,’ says Paula.

She looks absently at his broad, sheepish back as he goes. Then she turns back to the staffing.

‘Have you ever seen a dead body?’ says Jack.

The wet stones of the bridge arc above Alisha’s head. The day has the mulch of weeds and river water in it, stale cigarettes, clothes with smoke, mint chewing gum with smoke.

‘Yes,’ says Aaron.

Everyone stares at him.

‘When?’ asks Jack.