If you’re going to form a world view you’ve probably done it by the time you’re seventeen. Taken in the facts, made the connections, read the books (between the lines), listened to the dissenters, suspected the rich, famous and beautiful, the ball-kickers, the guys with the longest sideburns and shiniest suits. Found yourself hating the kids getting all the trophies (knowing they’re quite ordinary, but will always be praised). Felt yourself being pushed to the margins of some world you’ve barely entered. Known you don’t belong, like no one can see you, or cares about you or what you think. And when you say all this, you feel there’s someone about to put you back in your box, or room, staring through the glass for more clues, watching the wheels go round and round, not cos you want to control anyone or anything, but you want to know the truth. ‘So what you’re saying,’ I asked Nick, ‘is that we go to school to learn not to think?’

‘Thinking takes effort, and people are lazy.’

Gavin Davies came in late. He threw his bag on a desk and said, ‘I’s at the dentist.’

Nick indicated the pile of paper, the charcoal sticks, and Tracey.

‘Hey, Mr Andrews, you’re not gonna like this.’

‘What’s that, Gav?’

‘They’re painting over our murals.’

Nick ran for the door, shouting, ‘Hold on … you fuckin’ cunts.’

We dropped everything and followed him outside. The groundsman had already painted over Les Champness. Beige, although you could still see the outline. He had a couple of the opportunity kids with him, and they were stirring more paint. Nick approached him, pulled the brush from his hand and said, ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’

He just stood back. ‘Miss White told me to.’

Tracey said, ‘Nice work, dickhead.’

Curtis walked over, picked up a lid and tried to put it on a can. One of the kids pushed him away but he said, ‘Watch yerself!’

The groundsman wasn’t interested. ‘If you got a problem take it up with her. I do what I’m told.’

Nick stormed across the asphalt to the office. We followed. He looked back, saw us, but said nothing. Maybe he realised we should see what came next. As he always said, it was an artist’s job to question.

Curtis caught up with me. ‘They got Les first.’

‘We can repaint him.’

We followed Nick into the foyer. He burst into White’s office, stormed out a moment later and approached the desk. ‘Where’s Joy?’

The girl told him she was teaching.

‘What room?’

She checked. ‘Seventeen.’

He was off again—up the stairs, along the corridor, past posters showing how to factorise quadratic equations. He walked into room seventeen. We stood back. He wasn’t dangerous, but she was. We heard him say, ‘Did you agree to have them painted over?’