He extracts the Pop Tarts from the toaster by stabbing them with a knife, pretending to electrocute himself by writhing and making zizzing noises. ‘Breakfast is served,’ he says, passing one to Will.

‘What did you have in the car?’

Curiosity’s got the better of him, but as soon as he’s uttered the question Will panics that he’s broken some unspoken rule on not quizzing people about their criminal activities.

Alfie checks around him before answering. ‘I’m into more shit than people here realize.’

Will shakes his head. ‘It’s your business, mate. None of mine.’

Alfie waves his words away. ‘Shoebox full of designer shades in the boot. Six or seven grand’s worth at retail.’

‘Fakes?’

‘Six or seven grand’s worth, Parks. Every pair absolutely genuine. And one hundred per cent stolen. Still with their security tags on, in case there was any doubt.’

‘Shit.’

‘Yup. It wasn’t me that nicked them, mind, but I believe that’s not much of a defence.’

‘What you doing with them?’

‘Selling them. What else?’

‘Are there not less risky ways to earn money?’

Alfie wipes his sugary face on his sleeve. ‘Cuz, I’d love the pleasure of being able to do a Saturday job on a fiver an hour. Sadly, that’s not gonna cut it. My life’s complicated. Very blinking complicated. Know what I mean?’

Will gives what he hopes will be interpreted as a knowing nod. He has no idea what Alfie means.

‘Oh, and let’s not forget the couple of ounces of greenery in the glovebox,’ Alfie says. ‘Just to seal my fate. Shit, Parks, am I glad I picked you up. Saved my skin, cuz. Saved my fucking life.’

‘Right,’ Will mumbles.

‘No need to look so weirded out,’ Alfie says, laying a heavy arm round his shoulder. ‘Love you, man.’

Will nods, his brain running round in circles again. The bell sounds and the crowd in the common room thins as people head off to period three.

‘Physics,’ Will says, grimacing as he sinks the last of his coffee, gritty undissolved sugar sliding into his mouth.

‘Fuck it off,’ Alfie says. ‘Come on, there’s a pool table free.’

Will stops halfway through raising his rucksack to his shoulder. He’s never skipped a lesson in his life without illness or emergency. ‘I should probably …’

‘Let’s have a quid on it,’ Alfie says, digging in his pocket. ‘Easiest money you’ll ever make, cuz. I barely know one end of a cue from the other.’

Will’s grandad taught him snooker when he was a kid, and he sometimes plays – and usually beats – the chefs at Smugglers after hours.

‘Yeah, let’s do it,’ he says, excited by his own decision, by the lack of thought used to reach it.

‘Good man!’ Alfie says, strutting to the table and slamming his pound on the edge. ‘Rack ’em up. I never know how to do it.’