Parents run from hastily parked cars, through the grounds, under the cordon. Police officers in stab vests tackle them to the ground, restrain them as they claw at the grass to get closer.

Far below me, a helicopter hums over the school. Soon it is joined by another. A policeman gazes upward, gesticulating while yelling into his radio.

But up here it’s peaceful. There’s nothing to panic about. Beyond the boundaries of Five Oaks Secondary, all is calm. Nothing is out of the ordinary. It’s just another summer afternoon.

Soon just two ambulances remain. The activity loses its urgency. A team of police enters the main building. Another squad checks the toilets. Lone officers search each remaining Portakabin classroom. They enter wary, they exit relieved. And they crouch outside, shove chicken wire aside and scan the spaces beneath.

‘Oliver?’ The woman’s voice is far away, barely audible. ‘Say something, Oliver.’

My own unbearable weight returns to pin me to the ground. The strip of daylight emerges first. Then the underside of floor and the black ground.

Her head is turned from me as she speaks to someone behind her. ‘He’s staring straight at me,’ she tells them. ‘There’s no response. I think he might be dissociating.’

She lies flat on her belly and worms through the gap towards me. ‘Oliver?’

I give a minuscule nod.

‘Are you hurt, Oliver?’

As my eyes adjust, I see that her uniform is dark green. I can see half of the word Paramedic on her arm.

‘No,’ I whisper.

‘My name’s Cath,’ she tells me. ‘You’ve got a nasty injury to your face. I need you to come out from here so I can take a look at you.’

I brush my shoulder against my stinging cheek. Streaks of red smear on to my shirt. I must have dragged my face through something when I dived down here.

‘Do you think you can do that for me, Oliver?’

I look past her. Several people stand around on the grass nearby. I can see them only from the knees downward. Someone in black trousers and toe-capped boots, someone else in paramedic uniform. The guy in brown cords and immaculate patterned brogues can only be Silver Foxton. The patent heels below skin-coloured tights belong to Miss Morgan. I’ve no clue why she’s here.

‘Please, Oliver. I only want to make sure you’re OK. I know this is all very frightening.’

They have no idea it was me.

‘Come on now, Ollie!’ shouts a man’s voice.

Or it’s a trap.

‘Just hold on to my hand, darling,’ she says. ‘We can crawl out together.’