He reads it aloud. ‘Everybody is a genius. But, if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid.’ His eyes sweep over us before he repeats it. ‘Those are the words of Einstein himself, chaps. Each and every one of you. A genius. Are you going to disagree with Einstein?’

Two rivers run simultaneously down my face from each sideburn.

‘You want proof?’ he says. He stretches his foot beneath the old grand piano on the stage, rolling a football out beneath his gleaming brogue. ‘Where’s Danny Lassayo?’

Danny gets a cheer as he stands up right in front of me. Heads turn in my direction. He bows his gangly six-five frame. I feel the fizz of cold sweat burst from every centimetre of my skin. I drop my head again, feeling as though those stares are crushing me. I gasp a lungful of air. Pins and needles course through my body.

‘On the head, chap,’ says Mr Foxton, launching the ball towards him. ‘Sorry to surprise you, Danny, but I’ve seen what you can do. You have one minute to keep that ball in the air.’ He opens his palms towards us. ‘Now this – this is genius. Let’s all give him some support, chaps.’

Everyone follows Mr Foxton’s lead as he begins clapping. Danny hurls the ball in the air, flicking it upward with his elbows, rolling it round each foot in turn, catching it in the crook of his neck and letting it tumble down his spine. There are shouts and cheers as he leaves his spot and begins a lap of the hall, never letting the ball detach itself from the invisible string that keeps it orbiting him.

I try to focus on him. Distractions are helpful when this happens. I drive my stare towards the football as he reaches the stage. The shouts of the crowd start to echo inside my skull. I feel as though I can’t breathe out, only in, each hot breath stacking up inside me on top of the last. I concentrate on Danny’s flailing limbs, but I can’t suppress the familiar slideshow that has begun in my head.

The images clack over, one after the other. A lighted match falling into a pool of lighter fluid on the doormat at home. The flames licking up the inside of the front door. Gramps, overcome by fumes, falling down the stairs in his pyjamas, the fire swarming over him. The alley and the twisted grimace on Nate Mackie’s face, centimetres from mine, as he drives a knife into me on my walk home. And then I see it. Sophia’s fate. It’s the worst of all. I can’t bear it.