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‘That bastard should have been locked up for what he did,’ says Stuart. ‘If youdofind him, tell him to watch his back.’

‘I don’t suppose you know his mother’s address?’

‘No, I bloody don’t.’

Stuart slams the door in my face.

Lizzie

Why is there a police car at the school gates? My heart pounds – a memory of a very bad day with Olly. The day the frayed thread binding our family together finally snapped.

Suddenly, I’m running.

It’s Wednesday afternoon and lots of parents have arrived already, pressed up tight against the railings, curious, confused expressions on their faces.

Heart pounding, I stand on tiptoes, craning to see through gaps in the railings. I see flashes of neon and black and someone – a child – struggling on the floor.

‘Who is it?’ I demand. ‘Who are they holding down?’

‘Lloyd Neilson,’ a nearby mother whispers. ‘It’s about time.’

Recognition snaps like a rubber band, and I see Lloyd’s thick black hair and strong little body pulling and twisting under two policemen.

‘The headmaster can’t pretend there’s no trouble here now, can he?’ the mother continues.

We watch as the police handcuff Lloyd’s wrists and pull him to his feet, dragging him across the playground.

Lloyd is yelling, ‘Get your fucking hands off me. Fuck off and die, you fucking dickheads!’

The policemen stoically ignore him.

As the struggling group reach the gate, Lloyd plants his feet on the concrete and shouts: ‘If you scuff up these Nikes I’ll do you for it.’

One of the police, a grey-haired man with a large stomach, loses his temper then. He has a long, red scratch down his cheek, presumably from scuffling with Lloyd. ‘That’s enough from you, young man. I’ll throw your bloody shoes away if you don’t start walking. Send them off to forensics for testing and have them torn apart.’

Lloyd’s dark eyebrows turn into one furious line. He walks with the police then, shoes punching the tarmac,tramp, tramp, tramp.

The headmaster appears, eerily calm but unsmiling for once. He strides past the police and unlocks the school gate.

Lloyd turns, still struggling. ‘Fuckingbastard. I don’t tell,youdon’t tell.’

Slowly and deliberately, the headmaster turns back to Lloyd. I can’t see Mr Cockrun’s expression, but Lloyd’s angry, furrowed eyebrows lift in pure terror and he falls immediately silent.

Once the headmaster has marched back into the school building, Lloyd finds some defiance again.

‘Fucking Cockface,’ he mutters, as he’s led through the gates.

I notice Lloyd is blinking slowly, one side of his mouth hanging down. As he passes, his swimming eyes meet mine. ‘Tell Tom: nice one,’ he says, giving a thumbs-up.

I flinch.

Parents turn, eyeing me up and down.

Suddenly, I want to be a shadow again. I shouldn’t be wearing this orange scarf. Being exposed is too hard.

Why did Lloyd say that? Oh God, I need to talk to Tom. What’s going on?

Dimly, I hear the school bell ring. There’s a longer pause than usual; I imagine the teachers are keeping the kids back for a minute, making sure the police have removed Lloyd from the premises. Then the doors open and children stream out.