The Beacon Estate was a shithole. However, Jordan thought it might be a safer place to exist than in his current world, where the pressure to act in a certain way was as stifling as the misery shrouding his home right now. Here, he figured, he could become anonymous. He could fall below the standards of his father and disappear. The thought was arousing. The experience of walking free through the estate, answerable to no one, unsure of what might happen next, gave him the stimulant he’d been looking for for years. The constraints of exams, job profiles, the Duke of Edinburgh award, jumping through hoops and living a life that amounted to nothing at all when it was broken down into pieces, as it had been this week, were tearing him apart.

He had nothing to lose.

And everything to gain.

He spotted a group of kids in a park and went over to them. He spoke his best gangster language. Everybody spoke like that when they were with their mates, so it wasn’t difficult to appear natural. It didn’t matter how respectable the family: all kids learned from the same rap and drill. His mother had never heard him speak in such a way, except when she caught him singing along to rap on YouTube in his room. She’d said he was good at it, but she wouldn’t tell Dad.

Cutting a deal was the easiest thing he’d done all year. One kid on a bike offered to cycle to get some gear and he had to wait with the others. While he waited, he asked questions he’d prepared earlier, doing it in such a way that he was actually gleaning information from the small group of youngsters without them even realising it. He picked up names, flats, gathering places and recent reviews of certain inflammatory events on the estate.

‘Where yuz from, bruv?’

‘Manchester. Seeing cousins, innit. Fucking boring.’

The boys laughed and shared a smoke with the stranger.

‘Yuz around for long?’

‘Dunno.’

Jordan asked for a go on one of the younger boys’ BMX. He knew some tricks. He jumped on the bike and sped down the street; from the end, he could see the barricades and the demonstrators holding banners and chanting. He raced back to the boys and pulled a spinning wheelie in front of them. He’d perfected it as part of learning a new skill for his Duke of Edinburgh silver award. He set off again and flipped the bike into the air, landing on the road with the bike perched on a wall. The boys whistled.

‘That’s sick,’ one said. Jordan genuinely warmed to them. The boy came back with his gear and they traded happily.

‘Thanks, man.’

‘Come with us, man, we’re going to get high tonight.’

‘Where?’

‘Ah, just at my mate’s, he deals the ket round here.’

‘Where’s he get it from? Manchester?’