There was the time we faked a letter from the Residents’ Association, complete with a petition of forged signatures, insisting he stopped parking his beige mobile home on the street. Early the next morning, we watched and laughed as he huffily manoeuvred the eyesore on to his front lawn, demolishing his rockery in the process. We dared each other, in the dead of night, to creep to their dog flap, shove it open and yell the name of a sexual position before legging it.

And, most famously, we once ordered five minicabs, all to arrive at 3 a.m. The sight of them lined up outside, headlamps blazing, confused drivers standing together at the Hewitts’ front door, seemed the funniest thing we’d ever seen. And it spawned the catchphrase, ‘Was he really wearing a nightcap?’ because, in our memory of Mr Hewitt’s appearance at his front door to confront the gaggle of disgruntled cabbies who’d woken him, both Amit and I were certain he was wearing a nightshirt and cap, like he’d stepped out of a Victorian picture book. We knew perfectly well we’d just augmented the memory, added a detail for our own amusement, yet neither of us could recall the scene without picturing the old guy dressed like Wee Willie Winkie.

‘Why won’t you play, Morky? Come on, was he wearing a nightcap?’

‘I don’t care, Amit. I don’t care if he was wearing a fucking nightcap.’

‘Come over?’ His eyes look watery. He’s found his stride; he’s giving a decent performance. ‘Please, Morky.’

I turn to face the wall. ‘Just go.’

I watch discreetly in the mirror as he turns away from me and digs in his rucksack. Holding his iPhone in his palm, he checks round the slightly open door to reception – presumably to check no member of staff is about to appear and enforce the school’s strict no phone rule.

‘Who are you messaging?’ I snap.

‘I’m not messaging anyone, you bellend,’ he says with a laugh. ‘I’ve got something here you’ll love. You’ll fucking love it.’ He taps away at the screen. ‘Seriously, I saw this and thought of you.’

My guts twist and for a moment I think I’m going to be sick again. I know what’s on that phone. Surely he wouldn’t make me watch that?

‘I don’t want to see anything on there, Amit.’

‘Yeah, you do. Mate, it’s hilarious.’

He checks the door once more before thrusting the screen towards me. A video has begun to play. Before I can turn away, I catch sight of three naked girls lined up against a luridly coloured wall. And there’s a guy dressed up like a clown. Circus music plays in the background. It’s not what I feared. But I’ve no interest in watching it.