Slowly, Ben rose to his feet. The pupils all sat at individual desks, and he’d chosen a seat in a corner of the room furthest from the front. He’d been trying to keep a low profile, but all of a sudden he felt horribly exposed – as though he were on the edge of something and about to fall off.

‘What. Is. History. Your opinion please, Mr Draper.’

Ben knew that, whatever he said now, the other kids would only laugh. Even if he got the answer right – and there was precious little chance of that – Cavanagh would make out that it was wrong. He wouldn’t let Ben sit down until he’d been thoroughly humiliated. It was how it seemed to work here at Beaconsfield: the teachers would pick on one or two students per class, and use them to set an example. It had happened at previous schools Ben had attended, but here the students seemed almost to expect it. And it was always the same kids the teachers singled out – and Ben, since his arrival, had apparently gone straight to the top of their list. It was obvious to everyone that he didn’t belong here. He wasn’t posh enough, rich enough, clever enough.

‘Well, Mr Draper? We’re waiting.’

‘History is …’ Ben glanced at the faces turned his way – at the smiles and expectant sneers. ‘History is a waste of fucking time,’ he pronounced, and folded his arms.

There were gasps. Whispers. One person laughed, but mainly out of shock, it sounded like.

Cavanagh remained impassive. ‘Very eloquent, Mr Draper. I’m sure your mother and father would be proud. Perhaps you could use your new-found command of the vernacular to explain to them why you will be spending every evening of your first full week at Beaconsfield in detention.’

Ben blazed. Not at his sentence – he couldn’t care less about that – but at the very mention of his mother.

‘And no doubt your classmates will demand an explanation as well. Thanks to you, Mr Draper, everybody in this class is now required to deliver to my desk by nine o’clock tomorrow morning a two-page essay on the etymology and historical usage of the profanity that so coloured your response. Single-spaced, if you please,’ Cavanagh added, to groans from the rest of the class.

Cavanagh turned to walk back to the front of the room, and immediately Ben was struck on the cheek by a balled-up piece of paper, thrown from somewhere in Cavanagh’s blind spot. Ben spun, looking for the person responsible, but every single one of the other kids in the class was glaring at him, meaning it could have been anyone.