His sadness appeared to spread to Roth. When the teenager spoke again, he spoke in a sombre voice.

‘One second,’ he muttered, ‘I just need to do your face and then we’re done.’

Roth took a step forward, and only then did McCormick realise how long had passed in conversation. For much of their time together, Roth had not even been searching him.

Roth started to run his fingers around McCormick’s head, obviously just going through the motions rather than performing a genuine search. With the top of his body reached, McCormick knew how little time he had to complete his own personal mission.

‘All those youngsters from difficult backgrounds who I’ve helped over the years,’ he said, ‘most of them had something in common. It was their expression. Their eyes. Something in their brains showed in their faces – depression, self-pity, isolation… they all held something in their eyes that other people didn’t. But you know what’s strange, Oliver? I don’t see it in you. I see nothing negative in your face at all. Maybe you weren’t affected by your background, but experience tells me that’s impossible. I think you’ve grown used to hiding the hurt in order to look normal, and can pull off Oscar-worthy performances when important people are around.’

McCormick held his breath. All he had done was describe the Oakenfold students’ habit of masking their difficulties, but he wondered whether he had struck a hidden, vulnerable nerve with Oliver Roth. He had momentary visions of Roth losing his cool, and storming outside to grab a gun and shoot him in the head.

Instead, Roth did not react. He withdrew his fingers from McCormick’s head, his inspection over.

‘Actually,’ came his answer, ‘my upbringing was fine. Boring, actually. No hidden childhood abuse, no teenage depression, nothing. I had a good education, I was the smartest guy in school, and had a nice secure family life. But thanks for assuming I’m some kind of screw-up who went off the rails.’

A few minutes ago you were boasting about how many of my friends you’ve killed. But let’s ignore that for now.

‘You say you had an average upbringing,’ McCormick answered, ‘but something has always been missing from your life. You’ve never placed your trust in anyone, have you?’

Roth could have sent McCormick’s nose through the back of his head. Instead he maintained eye contact, and held a worried expression on his face.

‘You may never have been abused, Oliver, but you weren’t loved either. That’s why you don’t have the expression I was talking about. It’s not carefully hidden fear. It’s nothing.’

McCormick imagined that Roth had spent very little of his life in tears, of pain or joy. The teenager would not know how to deal with the sudden tightening of his throat, or the rippling of his exhaling lungs.