There was a kid in my class back in Year Nine called Jake Kinnear. His dad died of leukaemia. Mr Foxton held an assembly and told us all what had happened. Three weeks later, Jake came back to school. We all looked out for him; everyone smiled at him when he walked past; the teachers cut him slack. Did I expect that? I don’t think I thought about it. But I didn’t expect nothing at all.

Of course, I’d just lost an aunty. Not even a real one. I certainly hadn’t lost a dad like Jake Kinnear. For most, it’s just what aunties and uncles do: put tenners in birthday cards, have pasts more interesting than your parents, and die. There were no mentions in assembly, no kind words, no special arrangements. I don’t think the school even knew about it. Why would they? I’d lost an aunty. Just like everyone else has. So fucking what?

I wasn’t sad, even though Miss Morgan always asked if I was. I hadn’t stopped concentrating in class, even though Mr Clark often bollocked me for exactly that. I just didn’t know how to be any more. A few weeks into term, I’d become a visitor to the place, like some kid who’d had to leave a much nicer school, where he’d been happy, now looking around this oppressive place, wondering how he’d ever fit in.

My body still drifted through the corridors, it blew in and out of classrooms, but I no longer filled it. I had turned my back and curled up inside it. My eyes were cameras, my ears microphones, but the data they collected had to be scrutinized by my control centre before a response could be calculated and issued. My interactions operated with a satellite delay. I was left blunt. And, at Five Oaks Secondary, sharp was the only way to survive.

One by one they fell away – the people I recognized, who I’d once called friends. The Mackies lasted just days, getting arsey when I’d not done the homework either and couldn’t provide something for them to crib during registration as I usually did.