‘Where are you hurting?’ Four Stars demanded, feeling the boy’s head. My head, thought the boy as Four Stars bounced her knuckles off it as if sounding a watermelon.

‘Nowhere,’ he answered. He knew Four Stars’ cures were more harmful than all the ailments the second formers could think of.

‘Rubbish,’ she splattered. Each spittle had been equipped with a pick and shovel and they started about their task on the boy’s face.

‘Where did he punch you, Harper?’

The boy looked back totally mystified.

‘How stupid is this boy?’ Four Stars asked as if vital to her diagnosis.

‘Smart enough,’ Abbott said.

‘Concussion,’ Four Stars announced and moved a finger back and forth across the boy’s eyes. The boy followed it.

‘Did he bang your head against the wall?’ Abbott asked.

The boy stopped following the finger and looked back at Abbott and wondered if he should say they had the wrong student.

‘Concussion. I’ll undress him and put him into bed.’ The boy tried to sit up. One of the stories told was you must never let Four Stars undress you, no matter how many limbs are missing.

‘That won’t be necessary, just leave him with me for a few minutes,’ Mr Abbott said quickly.

‘Don’t let him go to sleep,’ Four Stars said and started tacking from the room, the boy watched her negotiate the doorway perfectly. If he had anyone to tell, they would’ve been interested in that sighting.

‘Can you sit up, Harper?’

‘Yes, sir,’ the boy replied before he knew if it was a fact. He managed to swing his legs over the side of the bed. The room moved for a little while before looking normal again.

‘What happened?’

‘I don’t know,’ the boy replied.

Abbott raised his voice, ‘Harper, no one can help you if you don’t tell us what’s going on.’

‘I had a pain and then . . .’ the boy said and thought, a black river, so black it pushed at me like a big invisible pillow, pushed at me until nothing was left of me.

‘“And then”, what?’ Abbott asked.

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Where did he hit you?’

‘I don’t remember being hit.’

‘Platmore said Darnley punched you in the stomach.’

Platmore was the sixth former who’d spoken to Darnley and the boy. The boy wondered why Darnley had hit him. But Darnley had been known to hit boys out of the blue and neither the boy nor Darnley would say why it happened. The boy thought Darnley had hit him for being . . . he started to cry.

‘Why did he hit you, Harper?’ Abbott asked.

‘I don’t know,’ the boy sobbed. Fat tears dropped and spread dark patches on his trousers.

‘Why are you crying?’

‘The blanket hurt my back,’ the boy lied, twisting. Tears fell with a plop on the blanket.