SINISTER ACADEMY

Katy POV

John 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 John’s bright blond hair and pale skin. The coat is from last winter, but he still hasn’t grown out of it. John 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.

John counts as he eats and sings.

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

‘It’s going to be exciting,’ I coax as John 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?’ John watches the stony ground.

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

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

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

John 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 John’s last school. Just spikey grey railings and towering, arched gates.

A shiny sign says:

STEELFIELD SCHOOL:AN OUTSTANDING EDUCATIONAL ESTABLISHMENT

HEADMASTER:ALANCOCKRUN, BAHONS SEMPER FORTIS– ALWAYS STRONG

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 John and me coming up the lane. ‘Who areyou?’ He bounces his football hard on the concrete, glaring.

I put a hand on John’s shoulder. ‘Come on, Johnmo. Nearly there.’

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

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

But they’re running now, laughing and careering through the school gates.

How do they know we’re from London?

‘It’s okay, Mum,’ says John.

My hand tenses on his shoulder. ‘I should say something.’

‘They don’t know me yet,’ John whispers. ‘That’s all. When they get to know me, it’ll be okay.’

My wise little eight-year-old. John has always been that way. Very in tune with people. But I am worried about bullying. Vulnerable children are easy targets. Social services told me that.

It will be hard for him …

As the three black-haired brothers head into the school yard, a remarkable change takes place. They stop jostling and pushing each other and walk sensibly, arms by their sides, mouths closed in angry lines.

John and I walk alongside the railings, approaching the open gates.

It’s funny – I’d expected this new academy school to be shiny and modern. Not to have grey brick walls, a bell tower, slate turrets and bars.

I sweep away thoughts of prisons and haunted houses and tell John, ‘Well, this is exciting. Look – there’s hopscotch.’

John doesn’t reply, his eyes wide at the shadowy brickwork.

‘This is my school?’ he asks, bewildered. ‘It looks like an old castle.’

‘Well, castles are fun. Maybe you can play knights or something. I know it’s different from the last place.’

‘Castles have ghosts,’ John whispers.

‘Oh, no they don’t. Anyway, big nearly-nine-year-old ghost-busters aren’t afraid of ghosts.’

We move towards the school gates, which are huge with spikes along the top, and I put on an even brighter voice. ‘You’re going to do great today, John. I love you so much. Stay cool, okay? High five?’

John gives me a weak high five.

‘Will you be okay, Mum?’ he asks.

I wonder if my son feels that I'm wrong... Sometimes you don't even realize it yourself.