‘Or are we so damned bad that we just don’t care?’ she asked me. ‘Are we so bad we won’t even care if we spend the whole night together?’

Our eyes locked as I spoke. ‘I reckon we might be that bad.’

12 p.m.

The school hall is hot and airless as we file in, 200 pairs of shoes squawking against the polished parquet floor. As people break out of the disorderly line and hurry to seat themselves among friends, I keep my head down, my eyes to myself, until I spot a vacant chair between two unconnected social circles. I squeeze along the line, negotiating without complaint the outstretched legs intent on tripping me.

‘Let him through, guys,’ Matt Alford says from his position next to the empty chair I’m bound for.

I’m braced for it. I know perfectly well that, having backed himself out of my path, he’s going to take my legs out as I pass. I stop just short of him and wait. He half smiles and waves me by.

‘Why don’t you fuck off, Matt?’ I say. It comes out too high-pitched, too whiny.

‘Jesus, Morcombe,’ he says, ‘take a day off, will you? Just sit the fuck down.’

I take a seat. Matt looks at me, shakes his head and adjusts the angle of his chair so his shoulder is to me. ‘And he wonders why he’s got no mates,’ he says to the guys from another form who he’s sitting with.

The chatter dies down as Mr Foxton assumes his position at the lectern. ‘Chaps,’ he says, squinting above his oversized glasses, ‘lose the blazers and ties if you wish. It’s incredibly warm.’

The sun is thrashing through the upper windows of the double-height hall as if focused by a magnifying glass. The warmth is stirring up this smell that usually just lurks in the background: sickly, part disinfectant and part mouldy mop. It seems to attach itself to the back of my tongue, pricking at my glands, making me salivate, making me queasy. I wriggle out of my blazer and feel the coolness on my back as my soaked shirt meets the air.

‘Wow,’ Mr Foxton says, his deeply tanned face swivelling from side to side, taking in everybody sitting before him. ‘Well, isn’t this quite something?’

Our year is silent. He’s the deputy head and he’s popular – the playground mockery never more severe than an aping of the way he always addresses us as chaps in that creamy, late-night radio presenter voice of his. Even his nickname – Silver Foxton – is generous, and embraced by the man himself.

‘I wonder if you remember. Nearly five years ago, I stood in this very hall. In front of me were two hundred young faces. Some eager to learn; some keen to make new friends; some perhaps a little scared as well. But each and every one filled with potential.’