The catcalling begins as soon as I’ve passed. ‘Mooor-cooombe,’ they take it in turns to repeat, sung in a shrill duotone, the first syllable higher than the second, like a train horn. ‘Mooor-cooombe. Mooor-cooombe.’

This is the soundtrack to my life. When someone trips me in the playground, this is what I hear. When I try to answer a question in class, this is what drowns me out. When I dare just to be within sight of another Five Oaks pupil, this is my punishment. Maybe I should’ve become immune by now, but every time it’s like a knitting needle sliding through my eardrums and delivering noise direct to the centre of my brain.

I grind my teeth together and wait for it to pass. Their laughter follows; the rasping cackle of voices not long broken.

‘Tell us where your mum is!’ comes a shout, the speaker emboldened by his distance from me.

I stop. Slowly, my head turns. They fall silent.

‘He’s gonna shout at us again,’ one says, making no attempt to hide his excitement. ‘Watch him – he’s gonna go nuts!’

His mate tells him to shut up. The other two look away.

Don’t be drawn. Not today. Just ignore it.

I turn my back on them. I pretend not to notice the stone that skims the ground, narrowly missing my ankle.

The discordant repetition of my surname begins again, a chorus to which a number of voices around the park join in. Like an opera singer shattering a wine glass, they are tuned to the exact frequency that can break me. With no other choice, I stare dead ahead and press on.

At the far side of the park, I climb the steps of the railway bridge, stopping at the top with my back to the station. Checking side to side, I see nobody approaching. I am, for a moment, alone. I stare along the perfect straightness of the tracks. The sidings are overgrown with ferns and bluebells; the pinprick where the lines converge is still dusted in a light mist. For a second, the tautness in my body unwinds. I have the sense of uncoiling into myself. I remember the night, two and a half weeks ago, when Sophia and I stood at this exact spot. The Plan was born here. This bridge belongs to us.

A train draws away beneath me, and I feel a twinge of urgent jealousy towards the passengers on board. Like a kid standing at the gates of an amusement park, hearing the screams from the rides, I itch to join them.