Amit. His porn tastes always did lean towards the grubby, the amateur, the non-consensual. Many of the videos he’d sent me over the years depicted scenes not dissimilar to the ordeal Sophia described. Even that phrase – ‘someone in every hole’ – was something I was sure I’d heard before.

‘You have to go to the police,’ I told her.

She looked at the ground and shook her head. ‘What’s the point? It’s my word and it’s theirs. They’ll just cover each other’s arses. No one’ll believe me.’

I didn’t argue. That’s exactly what they’d do.

I paced the bridge, the taste of blood filling my mouth as my teeth sank into the flesh of my cheek. I stepped away from the railings and planted my left foot, the way Gramps had taught me. Leaning backwards, I drew my hand back level with my shoulder. Stepping into the punch with all my weight, my fist slammed into the steel.

‘Fuck, Ollie!’ Sophia screamed. She jumped to her feet and grabbed my hand as blood poured from the knuckles. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

I glared back at her. The pain surged up my body and crashed like a wave through my brain. In its wake, there was no noise, no fear. Just clarity.

It was time to fight.

1.13 p.m.

Amit isn’t moving. He’s been sitting there, blocking the sickbay door for five minutes now. And they’ve been long ones – the sort of minutes that are composed entirely of individual seconds. He doesn’t even look uncomfortable.

He digs through his rucksack and pulls out his lunchbox. He tears open his Skips and lays the splayed packet on the chair next to him. Then he unwraps a triple-decker sandwich – one of the ‘Scooby Snacks’ for which he is famous – jacking open his mouth as far as it’ll go and taking a massive bite.

‘New York Club, Morky,’ he says. ‘You want one? Got lots of those little gherkins you love.’

‘You need to let me leave, Amit.’

‘Just having a spot of lunch. Welcome to join me.’

I grab at my hair. Why have I let him block me in here? Why can’t I just drag him off the chair? Why can’t I just throw him to the ground?

‘Remember these?’ Amit says, reaching into his bag again. He tosses a deck of cards wrapped in a rubber band on to the bed. ‘Found them the other day. Top Trumps. The supercar ones. Remember them? Middle school wouldn’t have been the same without them.’

I scowl at him, sweeping the deck off the bed and sending it skidding across the floor. I jump to my feet and face the wall. On the other side of the school, my bag lies unguarded. I need to get out of here. I’ve compromised the Plan too much already.