I shrugged, and realised I was no Lennon or Lenin or anyone, really, with a backbone. He gathered his few things, took the slip and left the room, saying, ‘Nearly eighteen, but you still won’t tell us …’

At recess, as we sat eating one of our last Twistie rolls, Curtis said, ‘There’s a list of rules in the behaviour room as well.’

I squished my roll innards into a little ball and threw it across the yard.

‘Thou shalt not speak, move about … thou shalt copy the school rules. Ironic, rules about rules. And Pearson’s there, pickin’ his nose.’

Pearson, Harry James. Chose the behaviour room. As a sort of calling. Appears to write poetry as he oversees the silent destruction of teen souls. Sonnet form? Types them up and forwards them to journals, and they’re published under a pen name …

‘I thought you were gonna speak up?’

‘What’s the point? He’s gone.’

It was disappointing that we’d miss a year of Andrews, but encouraging to know you could go through life thinking, doing and saying what you felt. ‘No walking through the car park,’ I said.

But he didn’t seem to care about rules anymore. ‘John’s been over your place.’

‘He’s helping Pop fix Mr Harper’s car. They beat out a panel and smoothed it, and sanded it back.’

Nothing.

‘He’s good at it.’

‘Hoo-fuckin’-ray. Tell Mum.’

‘What?’

‘I wish he’d piss off, or die.’

I knew. Violence was kept in kitchen cupboards. Brought home from the shops and packed away until it was needed. Used, returned, and never talked about.

‘He might come good,’ I said.

‘Your pop’s delusional. He’ll be okay for a few weeks before he robs a shop, pisses off back to McNally’s.’

‘Apparently if you walk past their cars you might pull off an aerial. It’s funny that they think that about us.’

‘They’re paid to deal with us. They’ve got mortgages. They need money. That’s the only reason.’ He sat slumped, holding his half-eaten roll. ‘Quiche.’

‘What?’

‘Apparently you can die from eating pies.’

It was no fun being unloved. But we all started off, and ended, this way. ‘I think when I’m older I’ll go to Greece,’ I said.

‘Greece?’

‘Work on a fishing boat.’

‘You’re too lazy.’

A long pause. Someone thumping pavers. A dog that never stopped barking.

‘There are good bits.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Like, the best, when the baker’s van used to come.’

Six thirty am. The van parked in the middle of the road. Mums in nighties and dressing-gowns drifting out, choosing fresh bread and finger buns. Val saying to Mum, You want ’em looked after tonight?

‘That was the best smell,’ I said.

Or me and Curtis, sent out in our pyjamas to buy a pipe loaf. Me, to the man: Mum says can you put it on her bill?