‘You can stop worrying,’ I tell him. ‘I’m not being sent home. You can tell everyone that their plan can go ahead.’

We stare at each other in silence. His forehead wrinkles. ‘What are you even talking about?’

‘I’ll be walking home through the park. Usual time. Tell them to bring it on.’

‘Is this about Nate and Joey? That crap they’ve been chatting about doing you over on the last day?’ He jabs at my foot with his. ‘Morky, mate, it’s all bullshit. They’re always mouthing off about what they’re going to do to people. They never do anything.’

‘Tell them to bring it on.’

Amit crouches by the bed so his eyes are level with mine. ‘What is wrong with you, mate?’

‘You can go now.’

He squints, like he’s bracing himself for something. ‘Do you want to come round for a frame or two of snooker tonight?’

He still asks this at least once a week. A pathetic attempt at pretending nothing has changed. For years, it was how we spent our Saturday nights, drawing out matches for hours on his dad’s full-size table in this massive log cabin in their garden. His dad usually cooked us ribs and macaroni cheese, and in return we’d steal from his stash of Magners cider in the garage.

‘Mum keeps saying how much she misses you,’ he says. ‘Making out like it’s my fault you don’t come round any more.’

It is Amit’s fault. And he knows that perfectly well.

He smiles. ‘I keep having to play Dad. I haven’t won a frame in a year. I want an opponent I can beat.’

I turn my head away from him.

‘This is like our last ever proper day of school. Why don’t we do something? You could stay over,’ he says, nodding firmly. ‘The Hewitts have started enjoying their retirement. We should do something about that.’ He forces a laugh, his eyes begging me to join in. ‘Was he really wearing a nightcap?’

The question is an old in-joke, something we used to say to each other all the time. The Hewitts live across the street from him. Four years ago, they held a Christmas party for the neighbourhood where they persistently apologized to Amit’s family for not laying on any spicy canapés. ‘I just can’t stand the smell,’ Mr Hewitt had eventually confided. From this innocent exchange, twelve-year-old Amit had deduced that they were closet racists. It resulted in the two of us pursuing a schoolboy vendetta against them every time I spent the night at his.