It was the one part of the day Ben enjoyed. Actually, genuinely enjoyed. He’d never been into God – what had He ever done for him? – but he’d always loved churches. The smell, the silence, the sense of safety. The chance, for once, to be at peace.

So morning worship was a time he’d come to look forward to. Every day at eight o’clock, the entire school was made to gather in the chapel, which was big enough to seat all six-hundred-odd kids. They perched on the wooden benches, while the teachers sat along the aisles, as well as at the front near the altar. Ben didn’t care about the service itself. He quite liked the bits where the chaplain read from the Bible, but then, when the headmaster took over to deliver his sermon, Ben always allowed himself to tune out. To allow his mind to drift.

It was better than sleep, in a way, because when you slept the chances were you would dream – and Ben’s dreams couldn’t be trusted. Sometimes they would start out OK. He’d dream of his mum, and she would hold Ben in her arms. Except then something would happen. Either his mum’s embrace would become too tight, squeezing him, suffocating him, or else the opposite would happen. Ben would be trying to cling on to her, but something would start pulling her away. She would begin to dissolve, so that when Ben grabbed for her, his hands would pass right through her. And every time he flailed she would disappear a little bit more, to the point that, just before Ben finally woke, he would always be alone.

Completely, utterly alone.

But in the chapel, there was no risk that the peace would betray him. For half an hour every morning, he could just sit and take in his surroundings, enjoying the shapes and textures of the building. It was a secret he’d never told anyone, but architecture had always fascinated him. The way buildings managed to develop personalities, even though they were basically lumps of concrete. Or wood, or glass, or metal, of course. And that was the other thing he found fascinating: the way different materials could be fused together to create something completely different, like notes arranged in a song.

Harmony. That was the word. Looking at buildings – good buildings – gave Ben a sense of harmony.

The school itself wasn’t a good building. With its dark walls and coal-black windows and its ramparts that looked like teeth, the only personality the school projected was that of an angry bully. Even the bell tower looked like a finger raised in warning.