‘Well, Brendon,’ answers Mr Walters. ‘Some would say we should extend the freedoms and privileges of our country to him because he’s here. And that he’s human and so deserving of proper treatment, regardless of his thoughts or actions.’

On the front of the newspaper, from behind which Mr Walters is talking, is a middle-eastern man. He’s shouting at the camera whilst being bundled into the back of a van by police officers.

Mr Walters continues, ‘Some people, on the other hand, are not so sure. There is an argument that leniency here may come back to bite us on the arse.’

There is always a small ripple of laughter when a teacher swears; in this classroom it’s a gruff ripple, more like a deep rumbling.

I know what they’re talking about. I caught a bit of the news on Saturday afternoon and they were talking about a deportation – there have a been a few recently, high profile ones. The middle-eastern man is a radical cleric, whose mosque – up north somewhere – has been accused of promoting terrorism.

Mr Walters continues, ‘The new government, Brendon, voted in with quite a majority, take the second view. They say that if certain people are preaching against the country in which they are living, they should look for another place to live.’

‘Too right, Sir, he’s a—’

‘Brendon, before you say something I’ll have to report,’ Mr Walters’ eyes flash over to me for a second, ‘I wonder if you would extend that logic to anyone born in this country. Should people be asked to leave if they propose violence against the state or towards the people in it?’

‘Even white people, Sir?’ The voice comes from another of the closed faces. A tall boy with a thin, pointed face and almost a full beard. His wide-set eyes are rimmed with pink. He brings to mind one of those dogs you’re not allowed to own anymore because they keep mauling people. I’ve never met him before.

‘Yes, though we know it’s wrong to differentiate on the basis of colour, don’t we, Vince? Now, enough politics for one day. Do you boys have your workbooks?’

A flat chorus of yeses.

‘Time to get on then. I need to sort Josh out.’

Four heads turn again to stare at me. I try not to, but I meet Vince’s eye. Almost automatically, I nod slightly in greeting.

‘What’s that poof doing here?’

I’ve never heard Mr Walters shout before. From the fact that all five of us jump a few inches in our seats, neither have the others. His voice goes off like a gun shot. The words seem to lash into Vince, physically. The effect is definite. Vince seems to shrink. It doesn’t last long and it doesn’t have to.

‘Josh, Vinny has something to say to you.’ Mr Walters returns to his usual calm, soft tones.