‘No. Wouldn’t wish to get in the way of two such keen students.’ She stands awkwardly in the doorway, doing exactly that. ‘Just get my bits together.’ She turns and begins to gather up various sheets of photo paper.

April peers in. ‘Blimey!’ she says, diving back out into the corridor.

‘May I have a moment?’ Ms Calloway says, closing the door behind her.

‘What?’ Will whispers. ‘What did you see?’

‘Wouldn’t want to corrupt your pure mind, Will Parks.’

‘Oh fuck off.’

‘Didn’t see a thing.’

‘Well, that’s a lie.’

Ms Calloway emerges. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,’ she says, looking Will and April up and down with a smirk as she hurries away, papers stacked scruffily under each arm.

‘We’d fucking struggle,’ April mumbles through smiling teeth as she waves after her.

The ECS darkroom is no more than a pokey storeroom with no windows. The bare brick walls and ceiling are painted matt black and the door has brush seals round it so no light can seep in. There’s a metal sink, some very vintage-looking developing equipment, a few barrels of chemicals and a small desk – the simple layout all the better for navigating in total darkness. By the looks of the yellowed information posters on the walls, sponsored by Konica and Agfa, the room has existed like this since at least the eighties, preserved for the few students like Will who enjoy the drama of shooting on film, and for Ms Calloway to do God-alone-knows-what in.

‘Ready?’ Will says, barging the door shut with his shoulder. He sets the film down on the desk in front of April. ‘Reckon you can trust me?’

‘Yes,’ she says, as Will flicks off the lights, submerging them in a syrupy blackness. ‘Unfortunately.’

‘Whatever,’ Will says, cracking the film canister open and feeding it by feel into the developing tank.

‘This is much easier than using your phone and having it printed at Boots,’ April says.

‘I’m not sure if it’s the huge expense or the ridiculous inconvenience that makes it so appealing.’

‘God, it’s dark,’ April says. ‘I’m waving my hand in front of my nose and I can’t even see it.’

It’s a delicate and fiddly operation, yet Will finds the job easier in darkness. His eyes rendered useless, his remaining sensory organs up their game; he can smell the cement in the damp walls, the smoky acid in the developing solution, the chemical fizz from photo film. April’s a metre away but he can feel her soft breathing, smell the cocktail of sea air and almond oil from her hair.

‘Can you hear that?’ April whispers. ‘Church bells.’

It’s faint, but Will can.

‘Never noticed them before,’ she says. ‘Must be miles away.’