Everyone knows the catch-up session isn’t really there for catching-up. The only people that go are four or five boys who miss a lesson every week because they get alternative provision because they can’t cope with school, which means that every Wednesday, they get taken in the school minibus to team building sessions, which are normally in the woods and involve lighting fires and cooking toast, or courses which teach them how to build walls. They’re not the kind of kids I want to spend time with.

‘I really think it would help, Josh. There’s a couple of things on the test that you missed. Real howlers. Are you OK at the moment?’

I nod.

‘I’ve already spoken to your mum and she’s fine with you staying. So I’ll see you after school, in here, OK?’

I nod again, and force a weak smile, ‘Thanks, Sir.’

‘Hey, that bruise has really come up. It’ll stay pretty colourful for a few days but should start healing soon. Fell up the stairs, your mum said?’

The noise comes back into my ears again; a high-pitched whine, like a little electric motor that’s running too fast.

‘Your mum told me on the phone. Looks like you did a real number on yourself.’ He leans a tiny bit closer, then adds, ‘I hope you punched it back.’

Another weak smile. There’s a taste in my mouth that’s a bit like blood and my cheek flushes warm again.

‘Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.’ Mr Walters taps the side of his nose.

*

After the bell for the end of the day, I walk back to Mr Walters’ classroom.

There’s always a strange atmosphere in a school after everyone has gone home. The corridors seem surprised that they’re not full anymore. They’re like arms that have forgotten how to be arms. I used to think it was the school relaxing after a long day, but walking through the science block this afternoon I get the feeling the corridor is watching me, almost willing me to be noisier, quicker, more boisterous, to make up for the fact I’m one person, not one hundred. It feels like it misses being full.

I breathe in as I step through Mr Walters’ door. Four faces look up as I enter. Hard faces. Closed faces. The conversation, that I’d heard from outside stops.

‘Josh, hi. Grab a stool there.’ Mr Walters sits with his feet up on the desk, pointing to a bench in the last but one row. A newspaper is open across his stretched out legs. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’

‘What do you think they should do to him, Sir?’ asks one of the closed faces. It’s a boy I haven’t been in a class with for years. I see him around school sometimes, wandering the site during lessons.