My brain is accelerating flat out. I’m a passenger to its whims now. My thoughts race by as if I’m watching them on fast forward. I see Perrett Woods, nine days ago, the night of the successful test blast. I hear the boom as if I’m standing there right now. I feel that same backdraught of heat waft over me. I feel my chest jump, my organs rattle, my brain wobble. I feel the bomb’s power. Its savagery.

I see my rucksack lying in our silent classroom. I watch it tear open, expand beyond any control, doubling and doubling in size, a wall of fire obliterating all in its path. I cut to outside, the timber shell shattering like a shoddy stage set, splintering and scattering over the field.

I grind my feet against each other. I tear at my drenched scalp, willing the bolts of adrenaline to stop pumping through me. My stomach is hot and frenetic, its meagre contents like a kettle on the boil.

As everyone delivers their applause at the end of Danny’s performance, I snap my gaze round the corners of the room, drawing straight lines between me and the exits. I consider slipping down the row and out while they clap. But the thought of everyone looking at me as I leave scares me more than staying. I squeeze my eyes shut.

Five more minutes and it’ll be over. I’ll be outside. My heart slows a little. A gallon of sweat slides down my torso, adding to the puddle in which I’m sitting.

I picture that view over Lake Windermere from the Boater’s Inn. I’ve looked at the photos on their website a thousand times. A long, slow breath escapes my cold, bloodless lips.

It’s so close now.

Mr Foxton shakes Danny Lassayo’s hand and whispers something in his ear. Danny retakes his seat in front of me.

‘Genius,’ Mr Foxton says, ‘is everywhere.’ The screen behind him rolls over to another image. Four long-haired guys, two with handlebar moustaches. The colours are washed out so their faces are pale and the sky a translucent green, but it’s no filter. ‘Who can tell me who these chaps are?’

There are no suggestions, but I know exactly who they are.

‘You’re all missing out, chaps. I can’t talk about genius without mentioning Pink Floyd. I was your age in the 1970s. This was the band that wrote the soundtrack to my youth.’