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roll of paper towel in a metal dispenser near the sink. He rips off a length of it, wets it under the tap so it won’t be too harsh on her skin and starts to clean her face. Any other eleven-year-old would resist, but Elsie lifts her face up to make it easier for him. Slowly, then, her tears subside. Thinking that it might be helping—his wiping her face—he goes back to the sink, takes a fresh piece of paper towel, wets it with warm water and again runs it over her skin. ‘Shush, love,’ he whispers, ‘it’s okay now, it’s okay.’
    A moment later, the bell rings. Although it’s not a bell anymore. Now it’s a recording that gets played through the loudspeakers. With Diane in charge, it was always going to be the Stones and, in a show of hands in the staffroom, ‘Jumpin’ Jack Flash’ won by a vote. Every morning, Terry has a little smile as he watches the kids hurrying to the sound of those bad boys. This morning, his smile is smaller than usual, but that’s not surprising. Bloody Trina.
    Just when things had finally been sorted out; just when Family Services had agreed that even if Len wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, it didn’t mean he couldn’t look after his daughter—and this happens. All the work he’d put into it—his work, Diane’s work—and now this. He’ll kill Trina if it unravels now. If it all gets dragged up again, he’ll come after her with an axe. It’s been a lesson, though, and this is the lesson he’s learnt: sometimes it’s better to fly under the radar and keep Family Services well out of the picture. With any luck, Trina’ll take off again and never come back.
    Enough of that. He turns to give Elsie a wink. ‘Come on,’ he says, holding out his hand. ‘Let’s go.’
    Outside, there’s mayhem in the playground.
    ‘Last year’s classes,’ Terry calls out. ‘Lining up in last year’s classes.’
    Running the length of Terry’s old classroom is a balcony that looks over the morning assembly area. It’s a good place to address the school, provided the PA system works. Terry calls it the Diane Thomas soapbox. But today, Laurie’s up there instead, in a suit again. Grey this time, instead of black. Still must be stinking hot, he thinks. His shirt is short-sleeved and already he’s sweating.
    Bringing the microphone up to her mouth, Laurie starts to speak. But no one can hear a word she’s saying. Stifling a smile, Terry climbs the stairs to give her a hand. Sure enough, she hasn’t switched the thing on. Granted, the button’s on the bottom of the mic instead of at the side, but still. He turns it on for her, gives it a tap to check it’s working, then hands it back. She says thanks but shoots him a half-hostile look, like it was his fault all along. And that’s enough to make him want to yank out the cable on his way back down the stairs.
    ‘Good morning, Brindle Public,’ says Laurie, and this time, because she puts her mouth so close to the microphone, it emits a sharp whistling sound. ‘My name is Ms Mathews and I will be the acting principal while Ms Thomas is on leave this year.’
    The announcement gets the kids whispering to each other, although Terry’s got no idea why. Diane must have warned them thirty times that she’d be away for the year. Still, it seems the penny’s only just dropped.
    And then it’s over to the main game: all students are to go with their old teachers, who’ll talk to them about their new classes.
    So far, so good, until Terry starts to lead his class up the stairs and over to the demountables.
    ‘Mr P,’ Kurt calls out, his voice already deeper than it was last year. His hair, thick and dark, sits neatly over his ears after what, togo by past experience, might well be his only haircut for the year. ‘Mr P,’ he repeats, ‘where we going? We’re going the wrong way.’
    ‘Yeah, Mr P,’ Ethan chips in. ‘This is the wrong way.’
    Terry turns around. ‘Let’s just say there’s been a couple of changes