I sensed it at once – the change of balance. Scott had talked a little too much, and the rumours chased each other like dead leaves from one end of the school to another. Graffiti appeared on shower-room walls; people nudged each other as I passed by. My greatest enemy was a girl named Jasmine – scheming, popular, and picture-pretty modest – who launched the first wave of rumours. I fought them with every dirty trick at my disposal, but once a victim, always a victim, and I soon returned to my usual role; a target for every snide comment and joke. Then Scott McKenzie joined the side. After a series of increasingly half-hearted excuses, he was seen out openly in town with Jasmine and her friends; and finally was pushed, cajoled, shamed and taunted into a direct assault. On my mother’s shop, no less; long since the butt of ridicule with its displays of crystals and books on sex-magic, now once more the target of their attack.

They came by night. A group of them; half-drunk and laughing and shushing and pushing each other. A little too early for Mischief Night; but the shops were already full of fireworks and Hallowe’en was beckoning with long skinny fingers that smelt of smoke. My room looked out on to the street. I heard them approach, heard sounds of mirth and tautened nerves; heard a voice – go on, do it! – a muttered response, another voice saying urgently – go on, go on – then ominous silence.

It lasted almost a minute. I checked. Then came the sound of something exploding, very close by, in a confined space. For a moment I thought they had put firecrackers in the rubbish bin – then the scent of smoke reached me. I looked out of the window and saw them scattered – six of them, like frightened pigeons – five boys and a girl, whose walk I recognized . . .

And Scott. Of course. Running ahead of the pack, his blond hair very pale in the street-light. And as I watched, he looked back at me – and just for a moment, our eyes might have met—

But the glare from the shop window must have made it impossible. That red-orange flare as the fire spread, leaping and tumbling and somersaulting like an evil acrobat from a rail of silk scarves to a trapeze of dreamcatchers and finally to a stack of books—

Shit. I saw his lips move. He halted – the girl at his side pulled him on. His friends joined in – he turned and ran. But not before I had marked them all; those sleek and stupid teenage faces, fire-blushed and grinning in the orange light—