I jerk sideways as a bus howls past me, wheels centimetres from the kerb, so close that hot diesel fumes catch my throat and prick at my eyes. The pendulum sway of my rucksack slows as I freeze, rooted to the spot. Off guard, I shoot a glance at the rear windscreen as the bus accelerates away. A familiar face looks down at me from the top deck, the type you’ll find occupying the back of any school bus: stub of tie so short it ends above the nipple line, buzz-cut hair, permanent loose smile – the sort of guy some girls find so irresistible. As I turn away from the wanker gesture he’s giving me, laughter erupts from a circle of girls across the road. Maybe it’s for me; maybe it isn’t. It feels like it’s for me. I fight the temptation to glance over, to have it confirmed. Instead, I crank my head forward, staring at my pounding feet as step by step I eat away at the journey.

I swing left into the alley that leads to the park. The walls to either side are crowned with barbed wire and glass shards, the blockwork tagged with unintelligible signatures in spray paint. Picking up my pace, I stick as far over to the left as I can, dodging the baked dog shit and crumpled beer cans. My position gives the best possible view round the slight right-hand curve of the path. Soon, at the far end of this alley, the green of the park will open up like a sliding door. Jogging would be madness, given my payload, but my stride gathers power as the relative safety of open ground looms closer, not a soul between me and it. I shoot a look over each shoulder every couple of seconds. I think of the times I’ve faced a crowd of ten or more of my classmates down here, the times I’ve been slammed against the concrete walls, the time I had to make a break for it when a knife was drawn. But I daren’t let myself think about what else happened here. Emerging at the far end today reminds me of the games of Monopoly that Gramps and I play: facing a stretch of the board blocked out with hotels, then throwing a twelve.