Visitors to his box of a room always wondered about the sign, although they were usually too polite to bring it up. It hung slightly skewed in the middle of a grubby but otherwise bare white wall, a faintly yellowed and crumply piece of paper. Two words had been scrawled angrily in hard thin biro and underlined several times. NEVER AGAIN.

The passion which had fired such sentiments had long since ambled away, although the memory of them remained clear. As he lay there contemplating the sign, the thought occurred to him that were he in the same situation a second time there was nothing that he would do differently, really. He seemed to be genetically condemned to these rollercoaster rides.

The boy’s shadow slipped over passing objects on the pavement as he ran. He moved with his face tilted slightly up to the sky, tousled blonde hair streamed flat against his scalp. His eyes, half-closed against the rush of air, were couched in swollen sockets. His cheeks were still damp, and flushed with exertion.

Reaching the end of the street, he slowed and threw a quick glance over his shoulder. No-one. There never was, anyway. Panting lightly, he drew aside an old piece of corrugated iron that was lounging insouciantly against a wall and disappeared into the dark space it hid.

Once inside he let go.

Just go to bed. Things will be better in the morning. Promise.