The staffroom could have held twenty-five or thirty teachers, but I saw only three when I knocked and entered in response to a cry of, "Come in." Two were middle-aged men, glued to thick chairs, reading enormous newspapers. The other was a burly woman, busy pinning sheets of printed paper to the walls.

"Help you?" the woman snapped without looking around.

"My name's Darren Horston. I'm looking for Mr. Chivers."

"Mr. Chivers isn't in yet. Have you an appointment?"

"Um. Yes. I think so."

"Then wait for him outside his office. This is the staffroom."

"Oh. OK."

Closing the door, I picked up my bag and returned to the headmaster's room. There was still no sign of him. I waited ten more minutes, then went searching for him again. This time I made for the school entrance, where I found a group of teenagers leaning against a wall, talking loudly, yawning, laughing, calling each other names and cursing pleasantly.

They were dressed in Mahler uniforms like me, but the clothes looked natural on them.

I approached a gang of five boys and two girls. They had their backs to me and were discussing some programme they'd seen on TV the night before. I cleared my throat to attract their attention, then smiled and stuck out a hand to the nearest boy when he turned. "Darren Horston," I grinned. "I'm new here. I'm looking for Mr. Chivers. You haven't seen him, have you?"

The boy stared at my hand — he didn't shake it — then into my face.

"You wot?" he mumbled.

"My name's Darren Horston," I said again. "I'm looking for—"

"I 'eard you the first time," he interrupted, scratching his nose and studying me suspiciously.

"Shivers ain't in yet," a girl said, and giggled as though she'd said something funny.

"Shivers ain't ever in before ten past nine," one of the boys yawned.

"An even later on a Monday," the girl said.