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THREE

      Boston, where I teach, is lovely in the fall. New England’s biggest city has ocean coastline, leafy avenues and friendly faces. As in any university city after Labor Day, the students are drifting back after the summer break. They bring with them an air of excitement. Longer evenings mean new faces, cold crisp mornings and hot new dates.

      At our little specialist Academy the new semester has just begun.

      Sunlight slants into the classrooms and the gym, the light pale and sharp now through the dark, late-summer green of the leaves as fall approaches. Our students’ lives are a universe away from the average Ivy Leaguer but they’re just as young, eager and full of hope.

      Today’s Freaky Friday. We trade places with the students by dressing down while the students put on suits. I resist joining my female colleagues in full-on schoolgirl burlesque. Echoes of Miss Normal warn me this would be unseemly. Worse, dark Darnley-related images spring instantly to mind. Primly I resist bobbysox and mini-pleats but give in far enough to redistribute my daytime ponytail into kooky pigtails tied with silly bows. I complete my outfit with pedal-pushers and sneakers.

      I aim for sporty but feel like an idiot.

      Well aware that on weekdays Darnley’s a million miles away from my working life, I forget what I’m wearing the instant I arrive. The students love doing this and look surprisingly cool in their sharp suits. They even act more grown-up so maybe it does some good.

      We have all kinds of students here – referrals mainly. None of them stay long. Some come from remand centres, some from rehab. Some are from wealthy backgrounds, some from the streets. Drama’s part of the programme on offer here to help them rehabilitate, boost their college prospects or work through personal problems. They mix with students from other backgrounds and age groups. Many are even older than me; I’m barely two years out of college and some of these ‘kids’ are in their early thirties.

      We rub along. They pity my hollow, empty life and probably think I tuck myself into some cupboard at night with a cat, or maybe stay over, motionless as the furniture.

      They, on the other hand, have busy, important lives poised on the edge of survival. When will they score next? Will they be beaten up on the way home? Does that boy or girl really fancy them or are they after their friend? Are their Converses cool enough? When will they eat?

      They know I want to help them. Kindly they let me fill their afternoons with my patient efforts to explain drama and poetry like I’m some crazy, well-meaning aunt. Sometimes they enjoy it, sometimes they even get into it.

      Attention spans vary from short to shorter but today they’re being very attentive. Drama class has never been so popular. Eldon has arrived with his camera, his blond, boy-band good looks and his fierce, uncertain temper laced with just that hint of danger he inherits from his family: that hint of Wolfe.

      He should fit in well here. Like our students, he’s a little wild too.

      He’s here to make a start on his movie and today’s a trial run.

      Right now the slanting sunlight pools on their tense, focused faces as they work through the drama piece I’ve set them, one of my favourites. It’s from a play about love and loss, hope and despair, the twists and turns of fate and how a chance remark or a misplaced glance can lead to joy or death.

      We’re working on the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet.

      It’s going surprisingly well. They totally get the passion, the jealousy and the violence. They get the feuding and the loyalties, the sex, the interfering adults and the street fights. To them this is home turf. Even the language is just another gang speaking its own code. They don’t know the words but they get what they mean.

      As they act it through I almost kid myself they’ll remember some of it; at least till they get back out on the street and real life kicks in again.

      Foolishly I feel proud. I love my work.

      Right now there’s a hushed silence as we all lean forward, keen to see how Winton, our new Romeo, gets it on with Suki, our Juliet. Their balcony greeting was a triumph – delicate and intense.

      Winton has a problem with one of his lines. Unknown to him it’s one of the most famous in literature and one of the best loved in Shakespeare.

      ‘But soft! what light through yonder window breaks?’

      Ever fascinated by their take on things I wait while they explore the image here.

      Winton’s genuinely perplexed. ‘But soft? What’s he sayin’ to her? “Hi, Babe, your butt’s soft?” C’mon, man. He’d just say, “Hi.” Kin I say “Hi,” Mz Dean?’

      There’s a ripple of laughter and another voice joins in. ‘High? Sure is if he thinks light kin break windows. What’s he on, man? Ms Dean, kin we break a window? Like – a sound effec’ or sump’n?’

      Sometimes the students teach me more than I teach them. Behind his camera even Eldon’s grinning.

      I’m calling a halt before we get too deeply into the precise dosage of Romeo’s pre-Juliet entertainment when a slender girl walks into our midst. She looks round calmly, seemingly unaware she’s interrupting something.

      We all go into freeze-frame.

      Early in the year the students here are edgy. I tend to get the odd stray wandering in from other classes. Today word will have gone round about the movie-making so I’m expecting several. Sometimes they even join in.

      But this girl puzzles me.

      She has the confident air of a socialite, plus she’s beautiful in a fair, haughty kind of way. She has high cheekbones, hazel eyes and silky hair. Her eyes fasten on me with a glimmer of satisfaction.

      ‘Hi.’ I speak low in the sudden silence. ‘Are you looking for somewhere?’

      ‘This the drama class? I just found it.’ She has a light accent. She tilts her head and smiles. ‘Mind if I watch?’

      ‘Sure.’ I grin. This one must be from rehab. Her manner is cool but something about her is tense, like she’s hiding something. They’re often like that. ‘Take a seat.’

      Behind us the camera keeps on whirring. We carry on with the lesson and I’m deep into some complex stage instruction about facing to the front so their voices will carry when I hear a flurry of movement at the back of the hall. More visitors.

      I ignore it, but now the silence lengthens as the students stare past me at something over my shoulder. Slowly I turn round to see who it is and I freeze.

      Darnley? Here?

      He’s standing just inside the door, flanked by his men. I watch spellbound as they fan out silently along the walls. The students are equally mesmerised. They’ve all seen hit men on TV. They know instantly these are the real deal. And all eyes, mine included, fasten on the striking figure at their head, his presence as arresting as his namesake predator.

      He scans the room, pointedly ignoring Eldon, and then fixes on me. For an earth-shattering second I feel slow heat rise in my cheeks then his gaze passes on without interest. A smile of surprised greeting dies on my lips as he fastens on the blonde, now gracing a battered canvas chair near the front of the stage, her slender legs in a model’s pose.

      He strides across the room, grabs hold of her arm and hauls her roughly to her feet.

       He knows her?

      He speaks low but his angry words are clear and forceful. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

      She glares up at him, gives a sulky toss of her head and allows herself to be led away. As she goes she darts an angry glance at me. She snorts through small, finely drawn nostrils.

      At the door Darnley turns to Eldon, his voice low like it’s an afterthought. ‘Ditch

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