In that first week, Friday did settle back into life at Highcrest. Her routine was the same as it had been before. She went to study hall, she read and she wrote up her work, taking notes from The Iliad and her copy of The Penguin Rhyming Dictionary.

  She even attended PE lessons. Not that she wanted to. It was a mandatory requirement of her staying at Highcrest. In every other subject, she was now studying at university post-graduate level, but she was yet to meet the minimum requirements for year 10 PE. Until she did, she had to study the subject. Not that much ‘study’ was involved. It was mainly burpees, running around a field and participating in yet another inane game that involved having balls thrown at your head.

  Dr Belcredi refused to make an exception for her. Friday needed to take some physical exercise. There was no point having an enormous brain if you didn’t have enough muscle tone in your body to support your head.

  So, studying Ancient Greek, PE lessons and mealtimes gave Friday’s days structure. But she wasn’t happy. Highcrest had moved on while she was away and she didn’t feel a part of it anymore. There was a new batch of kids who were the pranksters and the trouble makers and the nerds and she found it very hard to care.

  Equally, they didn’t care much about her. She wasn’t the integral part of the institution she had once been. Mirabella Peterson didn’t bully her anymore. Now that she was in year 10, Mirabella had three whole grades below her to bully, she didn’t have time for Friday. Somehow without the abuse, Highcrest wasn’t as homey. It was just quiet.

  And turning The Iliad into rap was not as straightforward as Friday had imagined. She always knew it would be a lot of work. But not this much. The Ancient Greek names were so long and multi-syllabic it was hard to make them rhyme.

  What rhymed with Achilles? Knock knees . . . smelly bees . . . tiny fleas . . . extremities . . . falling leaves . . . summer breeze?

  ‘Barnes!’

  Friday’s head lurched up. It was Dr Belcredi.

  ‘Was I doing something wrong?’ asked Friday.

  ‘No, that’s the problem,’ said Dr Belcredi.

  ‘I don’t follow,’ said Friday.

  ‘You’ve been at school for seven days and you haven’t set off the fire alarm, citizen’s arrested any of the teachers or cut a hole in the fence so you could go into town and investigate a major international crime syndicate,’ said Dr Belcredi. ‘It’s simply not like you. I’m worried.’

  ‘You’re worried because I’m behaving better?’ clarified Friday.

  ‘Yes, frankly, I am,’ said Dr Belcredi. ‘You have a brilliant deductive mind, a scientifically curious soul. It is unnatural to see you so quiet and dejected. I’m worried about your mental health. I’m concerned you may have depression, or at the very least need psychological counselling to ease your transition back to school life.’

  ‘But it’s a requirement of my parole that I’m boring,’ said Friday. ‘I promised to stay out of trouble.’

  ‘No-one expected you to actually do it though,’ said Dr Belcredi. ‘It’s my job to look after your welfare. I won’t allow you to sink into a funk.’

  ‘I’m just quietly working,’ said Friday, indicating her books and notes spread about her.

  ‘It’s not natural,’ said Dr Belcredi. ‘You haven’t even fallen in the swamp yet. I usually get complaints from the cleaning staff about you traipsing mud about the school several times a week.’

  ‘This isn’t fair,’ said Friday, getting quite upset about this unexpected burst of criticism. She didn’t want to cry in front of Dr Belcredi. Who knows what that might lead to – hugging? And she suspected that Dr Belcredi would find that as uncomfortable as she would.

  ‘It’s not my job to be fair,’ said Dr Belcredi. ‘It’s my job to do what’s best. I’ve made an appointment for you to see the school psychologist tomorrow morning at 10 am.’

  ‘I don’t want to go,’ said Friday.

  ‘Tough,’ said Dr Belcredi. She peered over Friday’s shoulder, looking at her work. ‘I’m sure your poetry about Achilles and his knock knees can wait another day.’

  Friday had never been to the counsellor’s office at Highcrest Academy before. She had been sent to the counsellor at her old school, when her year 2 teacher thought that her refusal to play ‘Duck Duck Goose’ was symptomatic of a behavioural disorder. Friday managed to convince that counsellor she was a perfectly normal six-year-old by using a PowerPoint presentation with three-dimensional graphs, detailed analysis of the latest medical research and a complicated combination of legal precedent.

  At her government-funded public primary school, the counsellor’s office had been a tiny square room with a chipped old desk, unnervingly sticky plastic chairs and grey-blue linoleum floor. The psychologist’s office at Highcrest was something else entirely. There was thick navy-blue carpet, a beautiful mahogany desk, a leather armchair and an incredibly comfortable couch. It even smelled soothing. As Friday sank her bottom into the soft fabric of the cushions, the scent of lavender wafted up.

  She looked about. There were only a couple of dozen books on the shelves. That did not make Friday think any less of the counsellor. In her experience, most teachers had shelves crowded with books they had not read mainly because they wanted to appear literate. The counsellor did have a lot of potted plants. Friday assumed this was supposed to be soothing. Either that or the counsellor was trying to generate their own oxygen supply through photosynthesis. Not a bad idea, given how bad the average teenage boy smells.

  The counsellor closed the door. The carpet and upholstery were so thick it was like being in a recording studio. The sound of the latch clicking was deadened immediately. Friday supposed this was because of the sensitive nature of what was discussed in the room. They didn’t want people listening out in the corridor.

  ‘Hello, I’m Dr Msamati,’ said the counsellor as she walked over and sat in her leather armchair. She was a very petite woman of African descent. Friday didn’t often meet adults who were the same height as her, five foot two. But there was nothing childlike about Dr Msamati. Everything about her appearance – her clothes, hair and demeanour – was precise and professional. Her posture spoke without words and it said, ‘I care, but not too much, so don’t get overly familiar.’

  ‘How can I help you?’ asked Dr Msamati.

  ‘You can’t,’ said Friday. ‘I don’t have any problems.’

  Dr Msamati looked at Friday.

  Friday looked back. She wasn’t going to be tricked into speaking. She knew psychologists used silence to prompt patients into babbling about themselves.

  Dr Msamati broke the silence first. ‘Dr Belcredi is concerned that your mood has been down since you returned to school.’

  ‘Since I got let out of prison,’ said Friday.

  Dr Msamati raised her eyebrows. This was her way of saying, ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘She’s probably watched too many prison dramas,’ said Friday. ‘She thinks it’s all fights in the yard, eating baked beans off trays and getting shoved headfirst into an industrial clothes dryer.’

  ‘And it’s not?’ asked Dr Msamati. She leaned her chin on her hand, with her elbow propped on the arm of the chair as though she was getting comfortable to listen to a really long story.

  ‘No,’ said Friday. ‘The food wasn’t too bad. Not as good as Mrs Marigold’s, but better than I used to get at home. And there wasn’t much fighting. You lost TV privileges if you fought.’

  ‘And you like watching TV?’ asked Dr Msamati.

  ‘No, but the girls who liked fighting did,’ said Friday. ‘I read books.’

  ‘Which books?’ asked Dr Msamati.

  ‘Why?’ asked Friday. ‘Are you going to psychoanalyse me based on my literary preferences?’

  Dr Msamati smiled. ‘Maybe. It depends what you read.’

  ‘I was inside for 328 days,’ said Friday. ‘It took three days for me to be issued with a card for the library. I only had access to the bible during that time. But for the remaining 325 days I read an average of three books a day, 975 in total.’

  ‘Plus the bible, so 976,’ said Dr Msamati.

  ‘I read that three times,’ said Friday. ‘That makes 978. There wasn’t that much of a selection. The science section was infantile and the librarian refused to subscribe to the International Journal of Theoretical Physics for me. So, I concentrated on the classics. Plato, Plutarch, Aristotle. For some reason people assume that old literature must be safe. In reality, it’s all much more revolutionary than any airport novel being published now.’

  Friday had been staring at her old red sneaker as she spoke. She didn’t want to look Dr Msamati in the eye. She seemed like a kind lady. Friday knew if she was forced to talk about her feelings and someone was kind to her, she would burst into tears. It was much better to stare at her foot. She had been staring at it for several moments before she noticed it was jiggling. That was bad, insane people jiggled. And guilty people. People with things to hide. She didn’t want Dr Msamati to think she was hiding anything, although, of course she was. Everyone was hiding something.

  Friday stopped jiggling her foot. It took a surprising amount of willpower. She stared at her still foot, willing it to behave. It was a moment before she realised that the silence had stretched on too long. She looked up and was shocked to see that . . . Dr Msamati was dead!

  At least that was what Friday thought at first, then she realised that was silly. There must be some other reason that the psychologist was slumped back in her armchair. Perhaps she’d suffered a stroke or been bitten by a venomous arachnid.

  Friday leaned closer and could see that Dr Msamati’s chest was still moving up and down as she breathed. That was a relief. Then Dr Msamati shifted slightly in her chair, and as she drew in her next breath, she snored.

  ‘Are you asleep?’ demanded Friday, in a loud voice.

  Dr Msamati flinched and snorted awake. ‘Urgh, sorry. What happened?’

  ‘You fell asleep!’ said Friday.

  ‘Oh no, not again,’ said Dr Msamati, rubbing her eyes. She didn’t look precise and professional anymore.

  ‘You’ve done this before?!’ said Friday. ‘I know medical doctors have a Hippocratic oath. Surely psychologists have some sort of similar professional standards? Falling asleep in a session must a big career no-no.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Dr Msamati. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’

  ‘Extreme boredom, I think,’ said Friday.

  ‘No, no, you’re not boring,’ said Dr Msamati.

  ‘I know,’ said Friday. ‘If you get bored, that is a reflection on you, not me.’

  Dr Msamati looked at her watch. ‘It’s just this session. Tuesday mornings. I get so tired for some reason. I don’t know why. I’ve been going to bed earlier on Monday nights to try and rectify it.’

  ‘You haven’t taken any medication or had any blows to the head?’ asked Friday.

  ‘No,’ said Dr Msamati.

  ‘Not that you can remember,’ said Friday. ‘If you had amnesia, you wouldn’t know.’

  ‘I don’t have amnesia,’ protested Dr Msamati.

  ‘Ahuh,’ said Friday, looking about the room, then turning her attention back to Dr Msamati. ‘No unexplained lumps on your scalp?’ Friday peered at Dr Msamati’s head as she asked this.

  ‘No!’ said Dr Msamati. Although she unconsciously ran her hands through her hair to check.

  ‘On how many Tuesdays have you had these symptoms?’ asked Friday.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Dr Msamati. ‘Um . . . well, actually, I do. This is the fifth week in a row.’

  ‘And you completely fall asleep?’ asked Friday.

  ‘Well, yes,’ admitted Dr Msamati. ‘That’s why I scheduled your session for now. In previous weeks I’ve used this hour to review my notes. But last week I fell asleep at my desk and completely missed my 10 am appointment.’

  Friday gave up any pretence of maintaining the normal doctor-patient behavioural protocols. She got up and walked across to the bookshelves where she started sniffing each of the potted plants in turn. Which shows how distracted Dr Msamati was from her professional role because she made no comment on this eccentric behaviour. She didn’t even note it on her pad.

  ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me,’ said Dr Msamati. ‘Ever since my first clinical post, I’ve always found the first hour of the day after breakfast as the time when I was most able to focus. Perhaps I’m coming down with something.’

  Friday turned her attention from the plants back to Dr Msamati. She peered closely at her face. ‘I don’t think so. No perspiration or flushed skin to indicate a raised temperature. Your eyes are clear and bright. No nasal secretions.’

  Dr Msamati instinctively raised her hand to cover her nose. No-one likes having their nose stared at, especially not by a strange teenager. But that only made Friday peer even closer, although now at her hand. Specifically her fingernails. ‘And the colouration under your fingernails indicates that you are not suffering from iron deficiency.’

  Friday glanced about the room one more time. ‘Who is the patient you are seeing after me?’

  ‘I can’t disclose that,’ said Dr Msamati. ‘It would be unethical.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Friday. ‘I’ll work it out. Although it would be easier if you simply told me. Someone you couldn’t see at 9 am, otherwise you would have moved them into this time slot last week to keep yourself awake. So, why wouldn’t a student be available during the first period of the day?’ She was asking herself these questions without any expectation that Dr Msamati would answer. ‘There are no sporting teams practising and for most students the first lesson of the day is home room. Totally nonessential. You can’t get behind in home room.’

  ‘We should get back to talking about you,’ said Dr Msamati.

  Friday ignored this suggestion and continued with her line of thought. ‘The only students who have to be doing something in first period are those helping Mrs Marigold clean up after breakfast. A task that is usually assigned to students who have been given so many detentions, they can’t be given anymore. Exactly the type of person to have a weekly session with the school counsellor.’

  Friday sat down to consider the facts. ‘In the past, the student most-frequently given detention was Ian Wainscott. Two years ago, he held the school record of ninety-eight detentions in a calendar year. But he’s gone. Next was Parker, with fifty-four detentions. But Parker is very stupid and not capable of consciously devising any kind of plan. A year ago the third person on the list was Eliot Fanshaw. I know he set fire to Mrs Marigold’s oven last week. I didn’t enquire at the time, but I presume it was because he was helping out at breakfast. So, is Eliot your next appointment today?’

  Dr Msamati tried to assume a poker face and did not respond.

  ‘I see,’ said Friday. ‘You are consciously trying to repress any facial expression. But you should wear your hair down when you are trying to hide your emotions. Because I can clearly see the vein in your neck, and your pulse rate visibly accelerated when I mentioned his name.’

  Dr Msamati covered her neck with her hand.

  ‘And now you’re covering your neck because you know it’s true,’ said Friday. ‘You’ve been betrayed by your heart rate, and your inability to control your unconscious reactions.’ Friday glanced at her watch. ‘My appointment is nearly up. Ninety seconds to go. Let’s see who is waiting outside.’

  Friday reached to open the door.

  ‘No!’ said Dr Msamati. ‘For privacy, you’re meant to leave through the other door.’ She was pointing to another doorway at the rear of the room.

  ‘I can overlook your falling asleep in my session, when I’m supposedly in need of psychological help,’ said Friday, ‘but I refuse to participate in a ridiculous charade. We both know who’s on the other side of this door.’ She turned the handle and threw the door open. And there, sitting outside, was . . . no-one. Just three empty plastic chairs.

  Dr Msamati sighed with relief.

  But then the external door opened and a tall lanky boy entered the waiting area.

  ‘Eliot Fanshaw,’ said Friday. ‘Tell me, what have you been doing to Dr Msamati’s breakfast?’

  Eliot looked shocked for a second, but then quickly masked it. ‘What are you rambling on about, Barnes? I didn’t do anything. There’s nothing you can pin on me.’

  Friday turned back to Dr Msamati. ‘What did you eat for breakfast?’

  ‘A sausage omelette,’ said Dr Msamati.

  ‘Perfect,’ said Friday. ‘I don’t think Eliot would drug you. That would be creepy and highly illegal. He would get in an enormous amount of trouble if he was caught and it could be easily proved with a urine test.’

  ‘Friday, this is wildly inappropriate,’ said Dr Msamati.

  ‘You’re embarrassed by the word “urine”?’ marvelled Friday. ‘You’re a psychologist who listens to teenagers’ troubles and anxieties all day long and you’re embarrassed by a bodily fluid?’

  ‘This is getting out of hand,’ said Dr Msamati.

  ‘But what if he put something in your food that was entirely normal,’ said Friday. ‘Something no-one would think to check for. Like turkey. Three nights ago, we had roast turkey for dinner. Turkey, indeed, all forms of poultry, are full of tryptophan, which is a known sleeping agent. Then to double up the effect, he gave you a cup of decaf coffee. The smell is distinctly different, I’m surprised you couldn’t taste it. Although perhaps you didn’t notice because you were already sleepy. Have there been any other unasked for foods appearing on your breakfast tray?’

  ‘Well, actually, yes!’ said Dr Msamati. ‘I’ve been getting bananas. I didn’t think anything of it. I assumed it was some initiative to encourage everyone to eat fruit.’

  ‘Bananas are also high in tryptophan as well as magnesium,’ said Friday. ‘Another known natural sedative.’

  ‘He’s been tampering with my food?’ marvelled Dr Msamati.

  ‘It’s brilliant,’ said Friday. ‘If you noticed anything, he could pass it off as an innocent kitchen mix-up.’