I kneel down to Tom and whisper, ‘Have a good day at school. I love you so much. Don’t think about Dad.’ I stroke Tom’s chin-length blond hair, left loose around his ears today. More conventional, I thought. Less like his father. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘I’m scared, Mum,’ says Tom. ‘I don’t want to leave you alone all day. What if Dad—’

I cut Tom off with a shake of my head and give him a thumbs-up. ‘It’s fine. We’re safe now, okay? He has no idea where we are.’ Then I hug him, burying my face in his fine hair.

‘I love you, Mum,’ says Tom.

‘I love you too.’ I step back, smiling encouragingly. ‘Go on then. You’ll be a big kid – going into class all by yourself. They’ll call you Tom Kinnock in the register. Social services gave them your old name. But remember you’re Riley now. Tom Riley.’

Tom wanders into the playground, a tiny figure drowned by a huge Transformers bag. He really is small for nearly nine. And thin too, with bony arms and legs.

Someone kicks a ball towards him, and Tom reacts with his feet – probably without thinking.

A minute later, he’s kicking a football with a group of lads, including two of the black-haired boys who were fighting before. The ball is kicked viciously by those boys, booted at children’s faces.

I’m anxious. Those kids look like trouble.

As I’m watching, the headmaster crosses the playground. Mr Cockrun. Yes. That’s his name. He’d never get away with that at a secondary school. His smile fades as he approaches the gate.

‘Hello there,’ he says. ‘You must be Mrs Kinnock.’

The way he says our old surname … I don’t feel especially welcomed.

‘Riley now,’ I say. ‘Miss Riley. Our social worker—’

‘Best not to hang around once they’ve gone inside,’ says Mr Cockrun, giving me a full politician’s smile and flashing straight, white teeth. ‘It can be unsettling, especially for the younger ones. And it’s also a safeguarding issue.’ He pulls a large bunch of keys from his pocket. ‘They’re always fine when the parents are gone.’

Mr Cockrun tugs at the stiff gate. It makes a horrible screech as metal drags along a tarmac trench, orange with rust. Then he takes the bulky chain that hangs from it and wraps it around three times before securing it with a gorilla padlock. He tests the arrangement, pulling at the chain.

‘Safe as houses,’ he tells me through the gates.

‘Why the padlock?’ I ask, seeing Tom small and trapped on the other side of the railings.

Mr Cockrun’s cheerful expression falters. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Why have you padlocked the gate?’ I don’t mean to raise my voice. Other parents are looking. But it feels sinister.

‘For safeguarding. Fail to safeguard the children and we fail everything.’

‘Yes, but—’