He picks up his copy of Geek Love, which he’s reading for the second time. It’s been less of a thrill-ride this time around, perhaps because he’s now familiar with its wonky plot, or perhaps because it’s been in his possession long enough to hardly smell of April at all. Double doors squawk in the distance, making Will jump, as every noise he hears in this room does. He shoves the book away. The offbeat clack of boot heels and costume jewellery approaching can only belong to one person.

‘Burning the midnight oil again, Will?’ Ms Calloway says.

He looks up from the sheet of negatives he’s inspecting, kept to hand for this exact eventuality. ‘Just going to run a print, Miss.’

‘Of course,’ she says, with the same smile she wears whenever Will lies about what he’s up to in here. ‘Always with the prints.’

‘Should I be paying a bit more for materials? I don’t mind.’

She waves the point away. ‘God, no. Last thing we need is for the powers-that-be to know it’s only you and me who use this regularly. They’ll repurpose the room quick as a flash! Then where will we be?’ She stares deeply at Will as she says it.

‘It’s …’ He feels himself redden. ‘I’m working on something for the charity disco.’

‘Perfect,’ she says bouncily, lifting her bursting-at-the-seams leather bag on to the table and drawing out a chair. Will smiles and nods along as she natters about the day she’s had, the few year sevens she teaches who’ve yet to have their innate creativity crushed by the system.

She catches him in here most days, be it at lunchtime or during a free period, or after hours. To begin with, Will worried that he’d have to fabricate a reason every time she appeared, but she never asks. Instead she just casually stops by for a chat, or just to say goodbye on her way out of school, reminding him how long it’ll be till the caretakers lock up.

It’s fortunate that she doesn’t grill him because he couldn’t possibly explain. He doesn’t know when it’ll come, that’s for sure. He just sits here and waits. He jumps when he hears voices approaching. Hairs stand on end when he spots a shadow on the walls. He feels sick when he closes the door and seals himself inside and shuts off the light for twenty seconds, just long enough to see if anything’s waiting in the darkness for him. There never is. But this is the place. That night on the boat, the instruction was clear: this is where they next meet.

‘How’s that brother of yours behaving?’ she asks vaguely, gnawing at a red biro. She’s removed a handful of exercise books from her bag, which she’s browsing through.