With insufficient classrooms to go round, photography lessons have been scheduled in the Walton Room – a smaller version of the school hall, usually used for parents’ evenings and public exams. It’s named after Ebbswick Community Secondary’s most – perhaps only – notable former pupil, Jack Walton, a betting shop entrepreneur. A grinning portrait of him in trademark red blazer and check trilby hangs above Ms Calloway’s seat at the far side of the room. Four chairs are arranged in a circle round her, enough for the entire class, Will now realizes, mildly panicked that there’s no corner to stash himself in.

The chairs themselves are minimalist items fashioned from a single metal tube snaking from the floor to the top of the backrest, their contemporary style at odds with the faded blue carpet tiles and slatted window blinds. The seat springs backwards as Will lowers his weight on to it and he has no choice but to sit perfectly still till the rocking motion stops.

‘Cool chairs, huh?’ Ms Calloway says.

Will smiles and nods, accidentally setting the bobbing motion going again.

‘It’s driftwood,’ she says, stroking the silvered dagger of timber hanging round her neck, giving Will the benefit of the doubt about where his eyes have come to rest. ‘Jurassic Coast. So smooth.’

There are tiny tattoos on each of her long fingers, Will notices. Among a bland teaching staff whose personal histories no student could give a toss about, Ms Calloway is the source of much gossip. The billowing skirts, crazy jewellery and the regular mention of her wife add up to make her worthy of speculation. Rumours abound that she lives in the camper van she drives to school, that she once did magic mushrooms with her sixth-formers, that she was in a cult till her forties, when she swapped it for a life as an art and photography teacher. It’s a reputation she’s never been known to play down.

Two chairs remain empty, but already here is a guy called Kris Tring. He hasn’t so much as looked at Will yet, instead sitting bolt upright clutching a massive Nikon, complete with flashgun and hooded long lens. His black-framed spectacles are what Will’s dad would disparagingly call ‘media glasses’, and his air of nonchalance and the skinny fit of his clothes lend him the appearance of a conceptual artist in training.

The door rattles. Will feels his pulse quicken. He glances behind him and sees approaching the same black ankle boots that were in the hallway at home when he returned from Nain’s late Friday night.

‘Hey, Will,’ April whispers as she takes her seat in the circle.