When we think of boarding schools, we tend to think of grey buildings like bunkers or youth detention centres, but that could not be further from the truth in this case. This particular boarding school was very prestigious and was housed inside an old stone monastery, boasting velvet curtains and oak tables. But this didn’t mean that the school didn’t have timetables to adhere to or rules and punishments, strict teachers with too much wax in their ears, students whose only topic of conversation was how rich their families were and a strict reverence for discipline, a reverence that was both absurd and excessive at the same time. At that time, all bad things considered, Peter was happy to be leaving, even if he was only to be gone a few days and to be spending some time with his parents.

It was then that his mother told him, using that tone of voice that meant nothing good was about to come, ‘Peter, your father and I have to go away on urgent business.’

Those two words, ‘travel’ and ‘urgent’, were the two words he had heard most often in his lifetime. Peter’s parents had an absolute fortune, but this meant they had very little time as they spent most of it making sure their fortune didn’t vanish overnight in a bad investment or a ruinous business.

‘We thought it would be best for you to stay with my brother, your Uncle Basilius,’ added his mother.

His parents, like almost everybody else’s, always did what they thought best for their child. For Peter that meant travelling often, changing schools every five seconds and sleeping in a different hotel room every night. All this didn’t do much for his academic performance so, after a while, they decided that ‘the best thing for him’ would be to send him away to boarding school for the best part of the year.

‘Uncle Basilius?’ he asked, feeling displeased. ‘I don’t want to go to anybody’s house. I’m better off at school if that’s the only option.’

‘Come on, Peter,’ said his mother in a caring way. ‘Don’t you remember what a good time you used to have there when you were little? You spent all your time running around the house and playing out in the garden.’

His mother was a very beautiful woman who knew how to use her powers of persuasion to get what she wanted, but Peter was already well aware that she could talk a lot and make empty promises, and he wasn’t about to let himself fall into that trap again.

‘Mum, I’m twelve years old. I don’t enjoy running up and down stairs anymore. It’s actually quite dangerous.’

‘I know, Peter, but this is really urgent business,’ said his mother, carefully touching up her make-up.

‘He doesn’t even have a television,’ retorted Peter.

‘Did I hear you say TV?’ interrupted his father, taking his eyes away from one of the reports he was reading, something he rarely did. ‘Young lad, after all those poor marks you got, do you really think we’re going to let you watch TV?’

‘Your father’s right,’ said his mother while absent-mindedly twirling her spectacular blonde hair.

Peter’s father, Mr Hillman, was a very rigorous man. He didn’t like surprises or improvisation, everything had to go exactly as planned, and nothing annoyed him more than something coming up out of the blue or taking him by surprise. So, when something like Peter’s studies didn’t meet his expectations, he set out to resolve it as soon as possible.

‘Do you know how much it costs to send you to such a prestigious school?’ his father asked. His father had a small moustache, and his hair was slicked back. He didn’t look like the kind of man who could take a joke.

He didn’t wait for an answer and went back to his papers.

‘I thought the state paid for prisons…’ muttered Peter quietly though he felt that, even if he were to shout, his parents wouldn’t hear him.

He knew it didn’t really matter what he thought or said. It felt as though what annoyed his father most wasn’t that he was failing, but that he was wasting his money. His parents organized their lives so efficiently, always deciding what would be better or worse for Peter. But when things didn’t turn out how they planned, they blamed him, calling him lazy and telling him he would never be successful. Their relationship had changed a lot over the years, and memories of going for walks with his parents or spending afternoons at home together were nothing but a distant illusion.

He decided not to try again and rested his head against the window, watching the wooden and stone houses of the old part of the city pass by as he caught glimpses of windows lit up by orange glows and tables already laid for dinner by the warmth of the fire.