She rounds the corner and the prison-bar school looms into view, packed with a crowd of parents and children, their eyes all on the tower. And I hunt for Rowan in the sea of blurry faces, but I can’t see him. Not with the group of teachers huddled together. Or waiting on the street for the police or the fire brigade to arrive. Or even with the thicket of men trying to ram open the handle-less door to the bell tower.

‘Idiots,’ Cecelia pants. ‘“Oh, look at me, I’m a big strong man. I can use my FISTS to break down this giant metal door.”’

She pushes through the crowd of people and among them I recognize Charlie and Fran looking guiltily at the tower, no crowbar in sight, but also no Rowan. Where is he?

Cecelia runs round the building and the noise from the crowd disappears.

‘Where’s she going?’ says Dad.

But then she stops, taking a moment to steady her breathing and wipe her hands down her clothes. One leg lifts up and she uses her feet to pull herself on top of a big red bin.

‘Are those my trainers?’ Mum tuts.

But we’re up. On to the bin and then quickly up the drainpipe and on to the roof of the school, as easy as breathing.

‘Something tells me she’s done that before,’ Dad says.

She jogs across the black roof – avoiding puddles and lost balls – towards the tower jutting up from the side of the building towards the clouds. And, as she gets close, I see what Mum meant about the building being old.

It’s falling down. Disintegrating. Chipped bricks balance on cracked cement, with gaps where others have fallen away altogether. Cecelia dusts her hands again and we look up with her at the clouds, where the top of the tower looms.

‘I’ve always wanted to do this.’

She puts out her hand, pushes her fingers into a hole and pulls herself up.

My heart has jumped into my throat and I’ve reached out for Mum’s hand without even thinking about it.

Cecelia looks down, slotting her foot into an impossibly small crack. The camera grates against the wall as she pulls herself up again. And again. And we hear her breathing get jagged – almost like she’s laughing.

‘Please say you’re recording this,’ she pants.

I hear Dad scratching his stubble. ‘She’s actually bonkers, that one.’

She climbs and climbs. Moving her arms and legs into places where I didn’t even see holes. And the camera is pointed towards the brick, so there’s no way of knowing how high she’s got other than the occasional glimpse of bright sky getting closer and closer.

And then, far away, we hear a shout. ‘There’s a girl climbing up the side!’