After that, MC2 asks us to take an object out of our bags. I take out my white afro comb. Lots of people take out their Chronophones but MC2 says they should all be different objects to make the story work. I thought Big Ben would take out his new stopwatch but he takes out a white bread roll with meat in from the night before. He looks like he’s going to eat it and I tell him not to. It might make him sick or die.

The game is to tell a group story. We each have to say a sentence in the story, including the object we took out of our bag. MC2 has a pen and he begins:

‘Once upon a time, a boy wrote a message on a tree.’

Lots of pupils find it difficult and say sentences that don’t make sense to the story. They all manage to include their objects, though. I’m pleased with my sentence, which is:

‘His afro comb was white as a tomb.’

I’m proud because comb and tomb is an eye rhyme and MC2 high-fives me.

‘Maestro, Elle!’

Once the game’s finished, Le Temps takes Big Ben’s roll and throws it on the fire for Health and Safety reasons.

‘Hope you haven’t got any more of those in your schoolbag,’ he says. ‘We don’t want you getting ill.’

Big Ben doesn’t answer, which either means he doesn’t want to talk to Le Temps because he doesn’t like him or he DOES have more in his bag but isn’t going to lie. Or both.

Back in our chalet, Ama’s pacing the bedroom. GMT’s already in bed. Noon’s still out – I think she prefers being outside to in. She’s fallen in love with The Round. Maybe she likes the trees with the infinity symbols on them. Ama’s forehead is so scrunched up she looks like somebody else. I don’t like her looking like an old person when she’s 14. I want to look away but I keep glancing at her sideways.

‘He knows something.’

‘Who?’ I say.

‘MC2. Don’t lose your hat, paint the trees red. He’s giving us a message.’

‘He saw Big Ben wearing the red hat last night,’ I said. ‘He was freestyling. When you’re freestyling you say the first thing that comes into your head.’

‘No, Elle. He said sunny day night. He meant Sunday, code for Kwesi. He must have known Kwesi. He—’

‘He didn’t finish his poem.’

They both look at me and I look away.

‘Le Temps started clapping but he hadn’t finished. It was a bad poem. It was all mixed up with no proper ending.’

Ama stops in the middle of the room. Her eyes go the biggest I’ve ever seen eyes.