The Upper School room in Farrar House had two balconies, each one with a cluster of chairs around it. One window was for the boys in general, the other for the Captains, four boys given special responsibilities for their house at Hulton College School.

At that moment, the Captains were beating Timothy with a tarred and knotted rope.

‘Gag him, for God’s sake,’ Hutchinson, a tall boy with cropped fair hair, muttered.

‘We don’t want Wolvercote to think we’re squealers.’

Timothy looked over his shoulder, clutching the cold metal of the radiator which he was bent up against. ‘I had a dream, Hutchinson, a nightmare. Death was in it. We all died. We were all killed. The whole of Farrar.’

‘We all have nightmares from time to time,’ Hutchinson told him, ‘but one learns not to wake up screaming. Only four more now. If you can refrain from making a noise, we shan’t gag you. D’you think you can?’

Alton wandered in at that moment. He was rather laconic for the Captains’ taste, but had passed the tests and pull-throughs designed for the new bugs with startling resilience. Especially impressive was his time on the gym rings, where he’d hung for a whole afternoon without the usual bleating. ‘Excuse me, Captain,’ he called, ‘but form master’s on his way up here. Saw him on the front stairs.’

‘What on earth does Smith want?’ Hutchinson muttered ‘Oh well, let’s not disturb his fair senses. Let bug up, we’ll finish him later.’

Dr Smith entered, his fingers tapping his lip thoughtfully, just as Timothy was skulking back to the boys’ side of the room. He was a short, dark-haired man, wearing a brown suit and an outrageous tie. The design of that tie summed up what the Captains thought of their new form master. It was colonial in nature, a swirling and colourful pattern such as one might expect to see on some foreign woman’s clothing. As part of a teacher’s kit, though, it was frankly inappropriate. The younger boys adored him, because he was homely and full of childish things. That was desperately bad for morale.

Still, the Captains stood to attention and saluted him.

‘House master in the Upper!’ bellowed Hutchinson, and the boys stood up.

‘Who’s that?’ Smith turned back to the door, as if some one had come in behind him, then, realizing they mean him, grinned for a millisecond and waved a distracted hand. He was still wearing his usual bemused expression, as if he was continually missing the point of some joke. ‘No, no, sit down. I came to ask… about cricket.’ He suddenly pulled a tiny rubber ball from his pocket, and bowled it over arm at a startled lad reading Boy’s Own in the corner. Gamely, the boy used the rolled-up paper to knock it back.