My shoulders drop and I let out a sigh. I know we’re not exactly friends but I hoped he might be supportive. That’s what you get for putting your faith in people: disappointment. I pick up my pace and he follows me, each of his long strides easily matching two of my own.

‘I’m busy right now, Tom. Can I ignore you some other time?’

He laughs and flicks his fringe from his eyes. ‘So are you going to tell me what happened or not?’ I keep walking and he touches my arm, his voice serious. ‘That weirdo didn’t actually hurt you, did he?’

‘No.’

‘Good. I would offer to beat him up, but it seems you’ve got it covered. I’m amazed you managed to throw a guy that size, but hey, kudos to you. I like a woman who can take care of herself.’

The phrase triggers something in me and I stop and scowl at him. I want to tell him that I didn’t learn martial arts the way that some girls take up yoga or gymnastics. For the past few years I’ve taken the bus into town after school and paid for lessons using the allowance my various foster families gave me, and then the wages from this job. I did it to keep myself safe. I take care of myself because I have to, because there’s no one else to do it.

‘Quit it with the Jackie Chan stare, would you? You’re making me feel uncomfortable in the workplace.’

On any other day, I would ignore his feeble attempts at humour and remind myself that he doesn’t know anything about me. He doesn’t know that I’ve grown up in care – like the people at school and my martial arts class don’t know, because I don’t tell them. He doesn’t have any idea of the things I’ve been through, what I’ve seen other kids in the system go through. Any other day, I would hold my head high and walk away – but not today.

‘Get lost, Tom.’

A hurt look flashes into his eyes, but I don’t have it in me to feel bad. I march along the walkway, brushing aside overhanging palms and the questions of overly inquisitive visitors as I go, then round the corner to the staffroom.

Mr Neeson sees me coming and darts inside. A few moments later he reappears in the doorway, partially blocking my view of Anorak Man, who is seated at the table behind him.

He holds out my coat and bag. ‘You’re fired.’

‘What?’

‘You know very well that using a mobile phone at work is a sackable offence. You’re already on a written warning and if you check paragraph five of your employment contract, it states quite clearly that –’

‘Some man attacks me, and I get fired for using my phone?’

Tom pushes in front of me. ‘You can’t sack someone after one written warning.’

My boss sniffs. ‘You’re forgetting the other little incident.’

I groan, realising what he’s talking about. A few months ago I squeezed myself into a cupboard in the staffroom, intending to scare Tom by passing him the ketchup when he opened the door. Only it wasn’t him who opened it. Mr Neeson was halfway through eating a jumbo sausage roll and was so shocked when I handed him the bottle of sauce that he started to choke. I regret bruising his ribs – but in my defence, I acted quickly and he was in no danger of dying, despite what he put in the disciplinary letter.