‘The videos. You were on there a few times this week. I can tell. Monday night, or very early Tuesday morning – you not sleeping or something?’ For the briefest of seconds, his concern seems genuine. ‘And again yesterday evening. My brother set up this thing.’ He takes his phone out. On the screen are rows of digits and symbols. ‘These are dates and times, and these are computer addresses. This one’s you, I think.’ He points to a string of numbers. ‘I don’t really get it. He’s a fucking genius with computers, my brother. It’s what he did when he was in.’ Alan’s grin is so genuine it’s almost infectious.

‘In?’ A horse whisper this time. I’m reeling from my week of silence being broken by such enthusiasm.

‘In the army. Before he left.’

I hadn’t meant to go back to that site. And I didn’t watch any videos, just stared at the screen, at a dozen or so thumbnails, freezeframes of streets at night, the back of a few hooded heads.

‘This is you, I think.’ He points again to the string of numbers. I’m not sure he’s pointing to the same one as last time. ‘Like I said, I’m not sure how it works. But did you see this?’ He opens a new window on his phone. It’s a local news website, with a headline ‘Increasing Hate-Crime Threatens Families’ and a picture of some houses. I recognise them as the ones on Jamie’s estate. There’s something written in red paint on one of the garage doors, but I can’t read it. Alan jerks the phone back into his pocket as Mr Walters comes back into the room.

‘Alan?’

‘Sorry, Sir, just asking Josh about something.’ He stays at my bench, casually leaning on it with his elbow. ‘I’m really interested in,’ he leans further over, staring at the page of the textbook, ‘gun-etics. Gun attacks? Is that in Biology sir?’

Vince makes his fingers into a gun and shoots Alan. Alan’s mock-death is carried off with lots of moaning and chest clutching, until Vince puts his finger-barrel to Alan’s head and finishes him off.

‘You mean genetics, Alan, you foul and devious cretin. Don’t get involved, Josh. Alan is a foul and devious cretin.’

‘Aw, Sir, and I thought you liked me.’

‘And for my sins, Alan, I do. I too must be a cretin.’

Alan begins to sidle back to his seat. Mr Walters warms to his theme.

‘For some reason, Alan, I do in truth see some value in you. Some faint glimmer of hope that, contrary to your own insidious actions—’

‘What’s insidious mean, Sir?’ Vince pipes up.