Mr Clark rolls his eyes and waits for the racket to subside. ‘Well, I won’t be missing this,’ he says.

My left ear is ringing and throbbing like crazy. I snatch resolute breaths through my nose, willing the tears bulging in the corners of my eyes to beat the gravity that tugs at them, imploring the surface tension to hold.

Don’t cry. Don’t fucking cry. Not today.

Mr Clark rolls up the sleeves of his denim shirt. Beneath the heading Study Day, he scrawls our schedule on the whiteboard. Ordinarily, we move from room to room for each lesson, divided by our subject sets, but today is different. The morning is allocated to reading time, while everyone in turn has a one-to-one with him to discuss God knows what. At twelve our entire year has an assembly with Mr Foxton. Attempting to inspire his students is Mr Foxton’s thing and I’m already braced for the inevitable half-hour of toilet-poster wisdom. The afternoon is set aside for work on our own revision timetables, back in this room.

I, however, will be excusing myself early and heading over to the main school building. Gramps stopped paying for my piano lessons last October, at my request, but Miss Morgan still insists on giving me a lesson every week, free of charge or thanks. ‘We can’t let this talent go to waste,’ she’s fond of saying. It’s the perfect excuse for an early exit today.

Joey shimmies his desk into the back of my chair. I press my heels into the floor and resist the movement.

‘I’m going to stick a knife right through your heart, Billy-bullshit,’ he growls from behind me. ‘You’re getting sliced to bits.’

‘Had it coming for way too long,’ says another voice that I can’t place. ‘Lying little shit.’

I’m so fucking sick of hearing it. That I’ve had it coming, that I’m a liar, that I brought this on myself. Whatever trouble I’ve caused them, it’s all because they gave me no choice. Every bit of it.

Instinctively, I look down at my crumpled rucksack. For a second, it’s like I have X-ray vision. I can see that tub, the timer, the cool cylinder of steel behind the veil of fabric. It feels like a faithful pet by my side.

Mr Clark turns to face us. He begins to call the register. Twenty-three names if you don’t include mine. I’ve sat through the same list every morning for two years, but it sounds different today. From Matthew Alford to Miguel Vera, there seems a longer pause than normal between each, something unusually solemn in Mr Clark’s delivery. For a couple of minutes, the world beyond this flimsy room is silent as I absorb every single one of those names, as I feel the weight of each bear down upon me.