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 Tom and me coming up the lane. ‘Who are you?’ He bounces his football hard on the concrete, glaring.
I put a hand on Tom’s shoulder. ‘Come on, Tommo. Nearly there.’
The shortest of the three boys shouts, ‘Oo, oo. London town-ies’.
I call after them, ‘Hey. Hey! Excuse me—’
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 Tom.
My hand tenses on his shoulder. ‘I should say something.’
‘They don’t know me yet,’ Tom whispers. ‘That’s all. When they get to know me, it’ll be okay.’
My wise little eight-year-old. Tom 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.
Tom 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 Tom, ‘Well, this is exciting. Look – there’s hopscotch.’
Tom 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,’ Tom 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, Tom. I love you so much. Stay cool, okay? High five?’
Tom gives me a weak high five.
‘Will you be okay, Mum?’ he asks.
My eyes well up. ‘Of course. I’ll be fine. It’s not your job to worry about me. It’s mine to worry about you.’
Tom turns towards the soulless tarmac and asks, ‘Aren’t you coming in with me?’
‘Parents aren’t allowed into the playground here,’ I say. ‘Someone from the office phoned to tell me. Something to do with safety.’
Two of the black-haired boys are fighting in a secluded corner near a netball post, a pile of tussling limbs.
‘Those Neilson boys,’ I hear a voice mutter beside me – a mother dropping off her daughter. ‘Can’t go five minutes without killing each other.’
The headmaster appears in the entranceway then – an immaculately presented man wearing a pinstripe suit and royal-blue tie. His hair is brown, neatly cut and combed, and he is clean-shaven with a boyish face that has a slightly rubbery, clown-like quality.
Hands in pockets, he surveys the playground. He is smiling, lips oddly red and jester-shaped, but his blue eyes remain cold and hard.
The chattering parents spot him and fall silent.
The headmaster approaches the corner where the boys are fighting and stops to watch, still smiling his cold smile.
After a moment, the boys sense the headmaster and quickly untangle themselves, standing straight, expressions fearful.
It’s a little creepy how all this is done in near silence, but I suppose at least the headmaster can keep order. Tom’s last school was chaos. Too many pupils and no control.
I kneel down to Tom and whisper, ‘Have a good day at school. I love you so much. Don’t think about Dad.’ I stroke Tom’s chin-length blond hair, left loose around his ears today. More conventional, I thought. Less like his father. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘I’m scared, Mum,’ says Tom. ‘I don’t want to leave you alone all day. What if Dad—’
I cut Tom off with a shake of my head and give him a thumbs-up. ‘It’s fine. We’re safe now, okay? He has no idea where we are.’ Then I hug him, burying my face in his fine hair.
‘I love you, Mum,’ says Tom.
‘I love you too.’ I step back, smiling encouragingly. ‘Go on then. You’ll be a big kid – going into class all by yourself. They’ll call you Tom Kinnock in the register. Social services gave them your old name. But remember you’re Riley now. Tom Riley.’
Tom wanders into the playground, a tiny figure drowned by a huge Transformers bag. He really is small for nearly nine. And thin too, with bony arms and legs.
Someone kicks a ball towards him, and Tom reacts with his feet – probably without thinking.
A minute later, he’s kicking a football with a group of lads, including two of the black-haired boys who were fighting before. The ball is kicked viciously by those boys, booted at children’s faces.
I’m anxious. Those kids look like trouble.
As I’m watching, the headmaster crosses the playground. Mr Cockrun. Yes. That’s his name. He’d never get away with that at a secondary school. His smile fades as he approaches the gate.
‘Hello there,’ he says. ‘You must be Mrs Kinnock.’
The way he says our old surname … I don’t feel especially welcomed.
‘Riley now,’ I say. ‘Miss Riley. Our social worker—’
‘Best not to hang around once they’ve gone inside,’ says Mr Cockrun, giving me a full politician’s smile and flashing straight, white teeth. ‘It can be unsettling, especially for the younger ones. And it’s also a safeguarding issue.’ He pulls a large bunch of keys from his pocket. ‘They’re always fine when the parents are gone.’
Mr Cockrun tugs at the stiff gate. It makes a horrible screech as metal drags along a tarmac trench, orange with rust. Then he takes the bulky chain that hangs from it and wraps it around three times before securing it with a gorilla padlock. He tests the arrangement, pulling at the chain.
‘Safe as houses,’ he tells me through the gates.
‘Why the padlock?’ I ask, seeing Tom small and trapped on the other side of the railings.
Mr Cockrun’s cheerful expression falters. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Why have you padlocked the gate?’ I don’t mean to raise my voice. Other parents are looking. But it feels sinister.
‘For