‘Swinton, Fletch wants you,’ said the face, scratched its nose, scowled and vanished, banging the door shut as Tom shouted, ‘You could have knocked!’ after him.

Tom caught up with the third-former scurrying along the lower-sixth-form corridor, which still stank of spray deodorants and mustiness. All the doors to the narrow, Spartan study bedrooms were open; and all of them were empty, the posters recently torn down, leaving tiny imprints behind them where they’d been stuck up with Blu Tack or tape.

‘Why does he want me?’

‘Didn’t say,’ said the boy, who was Colin Fletcher, the youngest son of Tom’s housemaster. They came clattering down the wooden stairs and reached the House Hall.

A tall mullioned window lent brightness to the rows of boards showing house honours, names painted onto wood, and the rack of pigeon holes, all now empty.

The boy hung for a moment on the banisters and gaped at Tom, until Tom shooed him away.

He checked his pidge, as if there might be something there to explain the letter; but all that was in it was a pink form he had yet to fill in about his university choices for next year. He put it back without looking at it.

A second later he knocked on Fletcher’s door and heard the housemaster’s deep response: ‘Enter!’ There was rather too much emphasis on the first syllable. Fletch sometimes liked to showboat, and Tom was one of the few who didn’t humour him. He went in sulkily.

The housemaster was ensconced in his large, comfortable brown leather armchair, which took up most of the office. He was a bulky man, with sparse grey hair and red-veined cheeks. Shining rugby trophies cluttered the shelves, which were largely bare of books. A plant pot occupied most of the remaining space. The very small window was wide open.

Fletcher was in his shirtsleeves. A fan on his desk was purring, but sweat patches were showing under his arms, darkening his blue shirt. Every time the fan moved across him, his tie, hanging loosely from an open collar, flapped.

‘Could do better,’ said Fletch to himself, in his peculiarly nasal voice, hardly looking up from the reports he was writing with a thick fountain pen. ‘Sometimes I wish I could write what I really think. But I don’t think parents want to hear that, do they, Swinton?’ Fletcher placed his pen on top of a pile of papers as if it were a weapon. He folded his arms deliberately. ‘There have been rumours this term – which I am willing to believe are only rumours. You have one year left here at Downshire and you are all set to do well in your A Levels. There are universities to apply to, internships to get. I am willing to give you the BOD.’ He liked to use sporting references.

Tom said nothing; he crossed his legs at the ankle.