The students were aged between eleven and eighteen, old enough to know better, young enough not to care or to respect their elders. Small wonder they’d been chucked out of their previous schools, with the swearing, fighting, drugs and all the rest.

Donny pulled up at the main gates, muttering under his breath as he spotted an old bloke stood to the side of the entrance. Whenever Alf was here at this time of the morning it meant trouble; he was here to complain. Donny opened the gates as quickly as he could and jumped back into his car to go and park up.

‘One minute, Alf, and I’ll be with you.’ The old man stood tall, a sour expression on his face. You could see he was agitated by the way he was fidgeting about. Donny’s mobile started ringing, Susan’s name flashing across the screen.

‘Hey, babe, gotta be quick because I’ve got some old geezer waiting to speak to me.’ He listened to his wife, confused. ‘Babe, I’ve just pulled up at school, the traffic was bad, bleeding hell, where do you think I’ve been?’ He held the phone away from his ear and shook his head before he interrupted her. ‘Babe, I’ve got to go. I’ll speak to you later. Bye.’ He ended the call, sat scratching his head. ‘Women,’ he sighed as he turned off the engine and grabbed the keys from the ignition.

He loved his Merc as much as he loved his Rolex, so had to double check and make sure it was secure before he left it. Given the chance the students would have had it away for a spot of joyriding. They’d done it before with one of the other teacher’s cars and they would do it again. They’d waited until she wasn’t looking, dipped their hands into her handbag and had the keys out as fast as any professional pickpocket. Four hours the car was missing, the teacher was distraught. And then when the police found it, it had been smashed into a fence; a total write-off. You had to keep everything here under lock and key. Even the windows had silver bars over them making the place look a bit like a small prison.

Donny walked over to Alf, fishing in his bag for a cigarette on the way. If he was going to listen to him moaning, then a ciggy would help. Susan thought he’d given up months ago so he was doing his best to hide it from her, but he was struggling to kick the habit. He was still getting through at least ten fags a day – but what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. He flicked his lighter, sparked up, sucked hard to release the first hit of nicotine of the day. He exhaled, blowing out a cloud of thick grey smoke.