Stupid to think my relief over Mary’s suggestion yesterday could last.

The school couldn’t give me much information, other than that Zach had left in an ambulance with a teacher.

The traffic on the way to the hospital was so bad, I drove down bus lanes most of the way and, by the time I reached reception, I was so panicked actual words seemed impossible to form.

‘Are you all right, love?’ The woman on the desk looked concerned. ‘Have some water?’ She offered me a plastic cup from the dispenser, but all I wanted was to know where my son was.

They’d already X-rayed and scanned his head when I located him, lying, eyes shut, in a curtained bay at the end of the A & E ward.

‘He blacked out briefly in the playground, but they’ve said they think he’s OK.’ The young teacher who’d accompanied him tried to be upbeat, but she sounded shaky herself.

‘But what happened? He wasn’t even meant to be at school.’

‘Some kind of altercation in the playground,’ she said, but the detail she was able to give was scant; she hadn’t seen the actual incident occur.

‘Do you want me to stay?’ It was obvious she was desperate to go.

‘No, thank you. It’s very kind of you to have come with him.’

‘We want you to know that the boys who did this have been – they’ve been apprehended by the Head.’ She gathered her coat. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs—’ She blanked. ‘Sorry…’

‘March,’ I said absently. ‘Ruby March.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘He’s a nice boy, a really nice boy. Poor Zach. I took him for English last term. He didn’t deserve this. Whatever he—’ She coughed nervously. ‘You know.’

‘No,’ I agreed absently.

He didn’t deserve this, whatever he might have done.

‘I’ll try and talk to the other girl – see what happened.’

‘What girl?’

A nurse popped her head round the curtain. ‘Sleeping? Bless him. Good news: there’s no broken bones, apart from maybe a rib, and the doctor says he can go home, most probably. He’ll be round soon.’

When both nurse and teacher had gone, the teacher still apologising, I sat by my son’s bed, staring at his face. His beautiful bruised face, bottom lip grazed, one eye puffed and sealed shut, one cheekbone stitched. But he didn’t talk: apart from one small grunt when I’d come in, he was either asleep, or doing a good job of pretending. The latter, I imagined.

He didn’t want to talk anymore. Talking had got us nowhere.

The nurse came back. ‘Doctor’ll be round to discharge him in five minutes.’

‘Thank you.’

A seething Ali arrived at that moment, wearing my old Afghan coat.

‘Who would do this?’ She gazed down at her brother – still pretending to be asleep. ‘The fucking bastards! I’ll kill them myself.’

‘Ali! I don’t know,’ I said wearily. ‘Ignorant idiots, I guess.’

Vigilantes, I thought. People who thought they knew the truth but knew nothing at all. Face value, virtue signals. Snap judgements, Twitter feeds, echo chambers of hatred, opinion and fake news; the world we lived in today. Everyone so desperate to be listened to; to make their mark. And they had – on my son.