David could never remember the date. Strange, it was the most important thing that had ever happened to him, would ever happen to him. It must have been after Christmas because it was still cold, but the decorations in the school hall had been taken down, and that ghastly fake snow had been wiped off the windows. He was sitting next to Francis Brennan. He remembered that, because Francis always sat fractionally too close, and the smell of him made David sweat. The date on the board said…? February? Valentine’s Day? Why not? That was fitting. It was Valentine’s Day.

The girl was standing outside the class doors. Her new blazer was too big. Her skirt, not new, was shiny on the seat. Her remarkable hair hid her face from the form tutor, Mr Bream, and the head, Mr Jackson. Both men were smiling down at her.

Francis nudged him. ‘New girl,’ he said. And winked.

As if Francis liked girls.

David had shuffled his chair away from Francis again then; he did every minute or so, in tiny increments, until his chair stuck out into the aisle. He turned to the door once more.

Girls around him were doing the same, while the boys shrugged and turned to each other, laughing, the noise increasing each minute, until the dull roar caused Mr Bream to open the door and cough sharply.

Jenny Holloway. New. Welcome. Fit in well. Seat next to Jeanine Finney.

Jenny walked to her seat, just across the aisle from David.

Jeanine Finney patted the chair next to her with a kind of queenly largesse, and David heard her asking if she’d just moved here, and Jenny was saying yes, last week.

‘She’s half-caste, I think? Isn’t she?’ Francis said then, and his voice, like everything else about Francis, was insultingly difficult to ignore. David froze. Jeanine stiffened and smiled embarrassedly, seemed to shrink into her blazer. Even Francis seemed to register the atmosphere, but, as usual, he made a bad thing worse.

‘Not being racist. David? Wasn’t being racist.’ His whisper was louder than any whisper ought to be. For a fraction of a second David allowed himself to look directly at Jenny – it was an assault on his senses. She smelled of apples and cinnamon, her skin glowed with an inner light, and her hair was a golden cloud of spun sugar. He also saw how her cheeks burned with shame, he registered that her toes, in her flimsy new school shoes, curled, and one small hand clamped to the side of the table, the knuckles white, and right from that first moment, David knew exactly what she was thinking. She was about to run. To cry. And she’d hate herself for crying, he could tell.

Francis tittered, nudged David – ‘Dark meat is so sweet.’

David saw her flinch, saw one foot arch, as if she was about to get up and bolt, and he knew what he had to do.

He picked up Francis’s compass from the table and jammed it into his thigh, pushing forward, and jerking it up because that was the way to cause maximum damage. He’d seen it once on a TV drama about the SAS. It was a very effective technique: Francis paled, then purpled. His shriek was high-pitched enough to cause the class to laugh, but, when it went on, and it became obvious how hurt Francis really was, the laugh petered out into excited murmurs. David gave the compass one more vicious push for good luck, pulled it out of Francis’ flesh and put it in his pocket. Then he leaped up, backed away from his table, and made himself look shocked watching the spread of blood pan across Francis’s meaty thigh, drip down his knee and drop-drop-splat onto the floor. Good job he’d stood up quickly, because the blood could easily have got onto his own trousers, and he knew from experience that blood was a bugger to get out...

Mr Bream muscled his way over. Francis was examined, the students babbled and, in the ensuing panic, Jenny was able to relax without anyone else peering at her and making comments.

It was the first favour he ever did for her. It still made him proud.

David was very calm as he was led away by the head teacher. He dropped the bloody compass beside the bins in the cafeteria and, during his grilling, he was able to say, truthfully, calmly, that he had no weapon on him.

‘You can search me.’

‘So Francis stabbed himself? Is that what you’re saying?’ The head teacher, relatively new to the job, reminded David slightly of Lenin. He had that same waxy sheen about him, the same pomposity. He wore cufflinks too, which David thought was absurd.

‘Mr Jackson, I can’t, hand on heart, tell you what happened.’ David made his face furrow. Hand on heart? was that a phrase a normal boy would use? He leaned forward slightly. Just having a man-to-man, conversation. They were both reasonable people, weren’t they? ‘Francis… well, I hate to tell you, but Francis has… God, this is awkward.’

Mr Jackson was interested, he could tell, but he wasn’t letting the stern head teacher mask slip yet. ‘Spit it out!’

‘Francis… he touches himself.’ David let himself blush. ‘Down there, you know.’ He nodded with solemn significance.

A shiver of distaste passed over Mr Jackson’s face. ‘Go on.’

David paused. He hunched into his school blazer, making himself look smaller, more vulnerable, ashamed. ‘I don’t really want to, sir. I don’t want to get him in even more trouble.’ David was good at that. Turning things around with such deftness that the victim became the perpetrator and vice versa. It was dizzying. It was one of his major talents.

‘David,’ Mr Jackson’s face was still stern but slightly less angry, ‘we’re not going to get anywhere if you don’t tell me the truth.’ He paused. David waited. ‘What was Francis doing?’

There! He’d got him. They were talking about Francis doing something now, not David. Now he could relax and have a bit of fun ‘When the new girl came in?’ He peeped out from under his eyebrows. ‘Francis… Francis got very… excited. If you know what I mean.’ He noted Mr Jackson’s wince. ‘I sit next to him. I think Mr Bream thinks that if Francis sits next to a boy he won’t get… you know… excited.’

Wince. Hands in steeple shape. Voice quiet. ‘Go on.’

‘Lately he’s been doing this thing – I think he thinks it’s funny? When he gets… excited? He sort of mimes punching himself – down there.’ David shook his head bleakly. ‘I’ve tried to tell Mr Bream about it, but—’

‘And have any of your classmates seen this… behaviour?’

David shook his head with all honesty. ‘I don’t think so. Francis sits by the wall, you know. He’s hidden from the rest of the class. It’s only me who has to… see what’s going on.’

Mr Jackson sighed. ‘Go on. The new girl?’

David blushed again. It wasn’t hard to blush; he wasn’t faking it. All he had to do was think of Jenny. ‘The new girl, she had to pass our desk, and when she passed, Francis said something... racist.’ David swallowed. Pebbles of indignation rumbled and bubbled beneath the smooth stream of his voice. He looked up. ‘He said something about her being a “half-caste”? I’m not sure what it means, but I think…’ Mr Jackson winced again, and David nodded sadly. ‘And then he said something even worse. Awful.’

‘What was that?’ For the first time Mr Jackson considered David with sympathy, with respect. ‘Don’t be afraid, just tell me.’

‘He was… excited. Really excited, you know? And when she passed he said: “Dark meat is sweeter” and he kind of did that punch himself thing? That he does as a joke? But he had a compass in his hand. He mustn’t have noticed.’

The silence lay heavy when he stopped talking, and David let it. This could go either way, he judged. Mr Jackson could either side with Francis Brennan – a fat little prick on the autistic spectrum who gave everybody in the school the creeps, or with David – a volunteer hall monitor, a decent student, an all-round good-egg with no history of violence.

‘You’re sure that’s what happened?’ Mr Jackson rested his pompous, serious gaze on David’s face. ‘This is a serious accusation, David.’

David nodded solemnly. ‘I know. And, look, for what it’s worth I really don’t think Francis can help it. Touching himself. It’s like an addiction or something but, more than that, he doesn’t understand…’ He let his voice trail off.

‘Social cues?’

David nodded. ‘He just has problems with things like that. But the racism? I mean, nobody can condone the racism, can they?’

Mr Jackson shook his head, his jowls swinging, ‘Absolutely not.’

‘But, sir, about Francis… please don’t come down too hard on him. And, if it’s easier for the school to blame me for what happened, then I’m willing to carry the can.’ He squared his shoulders in a way that he knew made him look both brave and touchingly young.

Mr Jackson smiled then, and David knew it was all over. ‘David, don’t be silly. There’s no way you’re taking the blame for something you didn’t do.’

‘But I really don’t want Francis to get into trouble,’ David said anxiously.

‘This isn’t your problem, David. And I’ll speak to Mr Bream, see if we can’t get you moved next to someone else.’

He was allowed to leave then. He made sure to drift by the cafeteria and pick up the compass. When he got back to the classroom, Francis’s blood was only a ruddy smear on the floor. Francis, himself, was absent.

Later, in the lunch hall, he saw Jenny sitting with Jeanine Finney and her friends. She was absolutely dazzling! Looking at them together, David couldn’t understand how and why he’d had a crush on Jeanine for such a long time. Next to Jenny she looked strangely lumpy and skittish, like an overbred horse. Even her laugh sounded like a neigh…

He sat down at the next table, with Jake Shearsmith and a few other people from his form.

‘What happened with Francis?’ Jake asked.

David made a brief wanking motion, shrugged, whispered: ‘Self-harm or something.’

‘That’s some sick shit,’ Jake grimaced happily. ‘Did he, like, have it out and everything?’

On the next table, Jeanine was asking Jenny more about where she lived. Her answer was too soft for him to catch, but Jeanine’s braying reply – ‘Oh, the new builds?’ – told him everything he needed to know. He hoped hard that Jenny didn’t pick up on the curl of pity and disdain in Jeanine’s voice.

She was such a bitch.

‘Dave?’ Jake again. Dave. David hated being called Dave.

David nodded, cracked a smile, ‘Forgot he was holding a compass.’

Jake, delighted, hooted with laughter, and by the end of the day the whole school buzzed with the knowledge that Francis Brennan – you know, the weird fat one? The one who lives with his nan and says he has an IQ of 150? – stab-wanked himself in maths class.