1
The more he read hisown name, which was allhis profile specified, the more he feared it lacked consequence: Isaac.Too literal among the self-appointed gods and slaves nearby. His photo had been taken at a wedding, before a church doorway and its imposing Gothic arches. He wore a white shirt, an ill-fitting navy blazer, and his mother’s hand rested on his shoulder.
He left the sixth form common room, scrolling through other people’s profiles on his phone. Ambiguous biographies called for scrutiny:
Single heist or regular. Positive, kink-friendlypig for willing partners in crime.
Many opted for transparency:
NO FUR NO FAT NO FEM £££ BAREBACK NOW
Low-quality photography showed Michelangelo chests harnessed in leather, feet in sloppy football socks, their soles black with dirt, or headless bodies in tight underwear, obscured by streaky mirrors in gyms andsupermarket toilets. One boy posed before a row of Portaloos at a festival, wearing a flamingo-print shirt and round sunglasses, the pink lenses all but concealing pill-fed pupils. Others lay in their bathtubs;climbed up metal steps at lidos; stood before lakes, castles or famous paintings; sat cross-legged on wind-battered sand dunes; or pinched the Leaning Tower of Pisa between thumb and forefinger. It all felt far-removed from Isaac’s reality, a world he was privy to but not part of, separated by the veil of his inexperience.
A motorbike spluttered through the traffic outside the school gates. There was a rumble of shoes and basketballs as secondary-aged students broke from their fag-smoking knots and spilled into their lessons. Isaac could feel thesesounds deep in his body after spending most of the night reading – but ultimately ignoring – what seemed like an endless stream of messages.
The Orwell Building for English, Music and Drama was on the other side of the car park. As he crossed it he caught the eyes of one of the science teachers lighting a cigaretteby his car, the crotch of his herringbone trousers offering a vague outline. Seeing teachers smoke still fascinated him, catching a glimpse into their private, fallible lives. Some students were sprawled out on a patch of grass as if acting out the aftermath of a lost battle, bags and jumpers removed, limbs at angles, their eyes closed to the April sun.
A man named ‘No Asians’ sent Isaac a message to say his photo was cute. He posed topless in his own, in front of a long, curved train toilet door and a metal sink. A dragon tattoo wrapped in a Celtic knot spiralled over one shoulder. His phone covered his face and black, rigid hair grew up his forearms. In his biography, he complained about the abundance of ugly people but specified that he wasclean, tight and open to most things.
Isaac deleted the message and walked through the double doors of the Orwell Building, where a group of boys were untying their ties from their heads and returning them to their collars. The corridor was narrow and low-ceilinged, reminding Isaac of the lower deck of a ship, with grey carpet tiles spotted black with chewing gum. It smelt like the vintage clothing shop on the high street, with its coalescence of stale food, cleaning products and the sweat of the long dead. The brick walls were painted a similar grey, and a large sign near the entrance read,If Music Be the Food of Love, Play On.
When he arrived at his English classroom he put his phone away.
Cherish had saved him a seat.‘You said you’d meet me at the fire station,’ she said,sta-tioncut cleanly in two by her own exasperation. The building had been a Lidl for years, but they still called it by its old name.
‘Sorry. Running late.’ He shed his denim jacket and rucksack and sat beside her.
‘Obviously.’ Cherish went back to scribbling on the table in pencil – her name, her initials, three small love hearts – then rubbing it all out with her eraser.
‘Did you read it?’ Isaac asked, removing his pristine copy ofThe Mayor of Casterbridgefrom his bag.
‘What do you think?’
Isaac couldn’t bring himself to start it either, feeling tired every time he saw the painting of two bearded Victorian men on the cover. It was the last book on their reading list before their final exam.
Mr Rooke walked in quickly, witha bird’s agile hop. Sixth formers still had to address teachers by their surnames, but since the start of secondary school Isaac had made it his duty to learn as many of their first names as he could. It made him feel equal to his elders.
Mr Rooke’s first name was Ben.
‘Apologies, Year 13,’ he said, turning off the mortuary-white lights. ‘There was an issue with a parent I had to deal with.’ He wore a pair of trousers that didn’t fit him properly, twisting at his knees and baggy around his ankles. His nipples were visible through his shirt, and he had a wide chest and thick thighs, all of which made Isaac imagine him having sex with his wife. Ben had
