On the far side of the bridge there’s a wooden gate leading to Platform One. At a brisk walk, it’s five minutes and forty seconds from the school gates. I’ve checked this seven times and the variance is twelve seconds at most. Of course, it would be faster if we ran, but people are likely to notice that, and, if we can avoid attracting attention, I reckon we’ve got a good few hours before anyone will know who to look for.

We should hear the blast as we wait on the platform, and we’ll be boarding the train less than a minute later. I’ve pictured it a million times: just the two of us on the deserted strip of concrete, the lazy afternoon sun playing over a silent town behind us, the rails humming as a train meanders in, a rumble of thunder beneath our feet, black smoke pluming upward in the distance, our eyes fixed on each other, knowing we’ve really done it, that at last we’re free. Miss Morgan used to say, ‘Imagine getting to the end of your performance, and everyone cheering and clapping – it’ll make you more confident.’

Whenever I imagine standing on that platform, I know I can’t fail.

8.24 a.m.

She’s busy. She hasn’t noticed that I’m here.

Up close, when you’re hers, you can forget just how beautiful a girl is. But from a distance you see through the same eyes as everybody else. She is impossibly perfect from here.

I’m standing on the pavement. Between us, the main road and plate-glass window of Bradbury’s News & Tobacco, where Sophia works her till, sorting the small change handed to her by a kid barely higher than the counter in exchange for a fistful of sweets. A queue behind, guys of various ages on their last stop before the school gates a minute up the road. Some of them are unnaturally still as they wait, some especially boisterous; none act normally.

The pain is strong today. That ache – below the guts but above the balls – the best pain in the world.

‘Way out of your league, Morcombe,’ says some passing sixth-form dickhead I don’t know. ‘Jesus, she’s even out of mine.’ He stops, takes in the view. ‘Imagine having a go on those tits.’ He holds his hands out in front of him, miming squeezing a couple of melons, with accompanying bicycle-horn sound effects. He fucks off before I get round to inviting him to.

Sophia turns. We catch each other’s eye. In that instant, the doubts vanish. My fears are silenced.

A knowing look is swapped between us, so quick that you’d blink and miss it. And we both get on with our jobs.

8.44 a.m.

There are two rules in this place: one, never be good at anything; two, never be bad at anything.