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Tom clatters down the polished, wooden staircase in his new Steelfield school uniform. I throw my arms around him.

‘A hug to make you grow big and strong,’ I say. ‘You get taller with every cuddle. Did you know that?’

‘I know, Mum. You tell me every morning.’

I hand him his blue wool coat. I’ve always liked this colour against Tom’s bright blond hair and pale skin. The coat is from last winter, but he still hasn’t grown out of it. Tom is small for his age; at nearly nine he looks more like seven.

We head out and onto the muddy track, stopping at a blackberry bush to pick berries.

Tom counts as he eats and sings.

‘One, two, three, four, five – to stay alive.’

‘It’s going to be exciting,’ I coax as Tom and I pass the school playing field. ‘Look at all that grass. You didn’t have that in London. And they’ve got a little woodland bit.’ I point to the trees edging the field. ‘And full-sized goalposts.’

‘What if Dad finds us?’ Tom watches the stony ground.

‘He won’t. Don’t worry. We’re safe here.’

‘I like our new house,’ says Tom. ‘It’s a family house. Like inPeter Pan.’

We walk on in silence and birds skitter across the path.

Tom says, ‘Hello, birds. Do you live here? Oh – did you hurt your leg, little birdy? I hope you feel better soon.’

They really are beautiful school grounds – huge and tree-lined, with bright green grass. Up ahead there is a silver, glimmering spider’s web tangled through the fence wire: an old bike chain bent around to repair a hole.

I wonder, briefly, why there is a hole in the fence. I’m sure there’s some logical explanation. This is an excellent school … But I’ve never seen a fence this tall around a school. It’s like a zoo enclosure.

I feel uneasy, thinking of children caged like animals.

A cage is safe. Think of it that way.

The school building sits at the front of the field, a large Victorian structure with a tarmac playground. There are no lively murals, like at Tom’s last school. Just spikey grey railings and towering, arched gates.

A shiny sign says:

STEELFIELDSCHOOL:ANOUTSTANDINGEDUCATIONALESTABLISHMENT

HEADMASTER:ALANCOCKRUN, BAHONSSEMPERFORTIS– ALWAYSSTRONG

The downstairs windows have bars on them, which feel a little sinister and an odd paradox to the holes in the fence. And one window – a small one by the main door – has blacked-out glass, a sleeping eye twinkling in the sun.

The playground is a spotless black lake. No scooter marks or trodden-in chewing gum. I’ve never seen a school so clean.

We approach the main road, joining a swarm of kids battling for pavement position.

Most of the kids are orderly and well-behaved. No chatting or playing. However, three boys stand out with their neon, scruffy shoes, angry faces and thick, shaggy black hair.

Brothers, I decide.

They are pushing and shoving each other, fighting over a football. The tallest of the boys notices Tom and me coming up the lane. ‘Who areyou?’ He bounces his football hard on the concrete, glaring.

I put a hand on Tom’s shoulder. ‘Come on, Tommo. Nearly there.’

The shortest of the three boys shouts, ‘Oo, oo. Londontown-ies’.

I call after them, ‘Hey. Hey!Excuseme—’