It was too soon to know what kind of principal he was, but the early signs pointed to a plodder. So far he’d buried me in forms and spouted a lot of jargon at staff meetings.

‘Okay, Aaron.’ He poked his head into sick bay. ‘Your mum’s coming to take you home. I want you to think about what you did and why you did it. And when you see Kayla again, I want you to apologise.’

Aaron didn’t answer. He was lying facedown on a narrow bed that almost filled the room. Aima Singh, the school counsellor, sat opposite him. Her schedule brought her to Otford every Friday, so she’d rushed out to help during Aaron’s meltdown. With her doe eyes and comforting middle-aged spread, she seemed nice enough. But Aaron wasn’t won over.

‘Right.’ Howard’s gaze flicked from me to Aima and back again. ‘I’ll see you both in my office this afternoon for a risk assessment meeting. And I’ll try to bring the parents in on—’

‘Howard?’ A heavy-set woman was moving down the hall towards us. She was wrapped in what looked like a butcher’s apron, but was otherwise well groomed in pressed polyester and nail polish. ‘What did he do? Is he here?’

‘Joyce.’ Howard moved to intercept her. My ears pricked. This was Aaron’s gran. But what was she doing at school?

‘He’s a good boy. He just needs a firm hand. It’s his mother’s fault—she lets him run riot.’ Moving with unexpected speed for such a big, heavy woman, Joyce dodged the principal and barged into sick bay as if she owned it. Though she looked about fifty, she had the aggressive energy of a teenager.

‘Aaron! Sit up!’ she barked. ‘What did you do? Eh?’

Aaron wriggled off the bed and swung around to confront her. His expression was blank.

‘Did you hit someone?’ she asked him. ‘Is that what you did?’

‘Joyce—’ Howard began.

‘I’ll sort him out.’ She jerked her chin at Aaron. ‘Come on. We’re going to the police station.’

‘Uh—Mrs Rooney?’ I felt I had to intercede, since Howard wasn’t throwing his weight around. ‘I’m Robyn Ayres. Aaron’s teacher.’

She looked at me for the first time. Her eyes narrowed.

‘Aaron’s mum is scheduled to pick him up today,’ I pointed out. ‘So she’s coming to collect him.’

Then Howard jumped in. ‘But you’re welcome to meet with us on Monday afternoon, Joyce. You and his parents. So we can discuss intervention strategies.’

Joyce gave a snort. ‘Intervention strategies?’ Her voice dripped with contempt. ‘I tell you what needs to be done. He needs to be taken away from his mother.’

I caught Aima’s eye. She looked appalled.

‘Mrs Rooney—’ she began.