Ben didn’t reply, and the chaplain lingered.

‘Is there … is there anything you would perhaps like to talk about?’

For a moment Ben hesitated. There was something he wanted to ask: a question that had been on his mind for as long as he could remember, and that he thought perhaps the chaplain might be able to answer. Ben wanted to know what happened when someone died; whether there was really a chance you would ever see them again. But Father Steiner wasn’t the friend he was pretending to be, Ben reminded himself. Probably he’d tell Ben anything he thought Ben wanted to hear.

‘No,’ Ben said, focusing on his drawing. ‘Thank you.’

He didn’t look up, but he could tell Father Steiner hadn’t moved.

‘It’s just, you seem upset,’ the chaplain said at last. ‘Did something happen? In class maybe? Or between you and your friends?’

Involuntarily Ben raised his head, and a look of understanding passed across the chaplain’s features.

He edged closer. There was space on the bench beside Ben, but after seeming to hesitate for a moment, Father Steiner took a seat on the bench opposite. He looked at Ben across the width of the transept, two or three extended arms’ lengths between them.

‘What are you drawing? May I see?’

It was an uncomfortable echo of what had happened with Callum in the library. ‘I’m not really drawing anything. Just … fragments. And nothing’s turning out right, anyway.’

Succumbing to a wave of frustration, Ben scribbled angrily over everything he’d been sketching, then tossed his notepad on to the bench beside him. What was the point? Even if he could do it properly, drawing wasn’t going to change anything.

He glanced and caught the chaplain’s expression of concern. But when Father Steiner saw Ben looking, he smiled kindly. ‘Lacking inspiration, perhaps?’ he suggested. ‘We all have days like those, I’m afraid.’

Ben didn’t reply. He felt tears building once again behind his eyes.

‘Ben?’ said the chaplain softly. He leaned forward, linking his hands and resting his elbows on his knees. ‘This may not really be my place, but … will you allow me to give you a piece of advice? The children I’ve noticed you hanging around with. Callum Richardson. Melissa Haynes. Lance Wheeler. They’re not … they’re not the kind of people you perhaps think they are.’

Ben felt himself bridling, and the chaplain obviously noticed it, too. Father Steiner held up his hands.

‘All I’m trying to say is, there are other pupils at the school who would perhaps make you happier. People like … like Isaac, for example. You’re both … thoughtful. Compassionate. And you could both use a proper friend of your own age.’