I clatter into Mr Clark’s desk. My eyes dart over every square centimetre of the room, recording a jerky cine film of each detail. Desks and chairs are skewed from their usual grid. The class sits in irregular circles, feet on desks, uniforms dishevelled and partly removed. The surprise at my entrance spreads through them, drawing their attention to me one by one. Some faces are incredulous, some amused.

Panting, I find the breath to speak. ‘Where’s Mr Clark?’

Their conversation stops, but no one replies.

‘Where the fuck is he?’ I yell.

‘Gone looking for Silver Foxton,’ Lei Pang tells me, not meeting my eye.

‘Everyone needs to get out!’ I shout. My outstretched hands gesticulate wildly. ‘Right now.’

‘He’s proper lost it this time,’ Dimi Kyrkos says.

Nate Mackie shoots to his feet, the violence of his movement sending his chair crashing to the wall behind him. ‘Shut the fuck up, Morcombe, you fucking little weirdo.’

‘Just do what I say.’

The sniggering around the room has gathered pace; many of them are openly laughing now. Joey begins the chorus. ‘Mooor-cooombe!’ he howls. Within seconds, most of the class have joined in, their shrieks bouncing off the windows and smashing into my brain.

I’m moving among them now. ‘Shut up!’ I scream. ‘Shut up!’

‘You are an absolute mentalist, Morcombe,’ Matt Alford says through his laughter.

‘Please,’ I squeal. ‘Everybody has to get out of here. Please do what I say.’

It’s like I’ve just told a great joke. They fall about, take it in turns to repeat what I’ve just said, each impression cranking the pitch up a further few semitones.

‘Calm down, Morky, mate,’ Amit says close to my ear. ‘You need to chill.’

‘Get them out,’ I snap back.

He looks at me with that same wide-eyed fear as he did earlier in the sickbay.

‘You’re such a cock,’ Joey says. ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’

There’s no chance of them leaving. How long since I set the timer? It has to be close on thirty minutes. I glance at the clock. It’s six minutes past three. The information is useless to me – I don’t remember what time I set it. Maybe I never knew.

It takes just a couple of seconds for my darting eyes to locate my rucksack among the displaced furniture. It’s a metre and a half away, crumpled against Amit’s sports bag. I drop to my hands and knees. There’s a confused silence above me, their circle of bile robbed of its focus. Bullies are always disorientated by surprise – their craft relies upon predictable responses.