My mates get off home as soon as school finishes so they are on time for their families and the stuff they have planned.

If Dad was home we could talk about our day and talk about what we might do at the weekend. But this morning he texted to say he won’t be back until tomorrow night, or it might even be Sunday if the job needs him to stay longer.

I’m not sure what I’ll do all weekend.

I decide to walk the long way home, up St Ann’s Well Road and back down Woodborough Road, the steep hill that leads into the back roads of our estate. It’s really warm and fine out. For the first time it really feels like summer is here to stay.

There are loads of little kids scuttling around, having just been collected from the nearby primary school by their parents. Some squeal and yell, running round like they just escaped prison, but most walk nicely hand in hand with their mum or dad, the kids relaying their day at school. Looking up at the adults like they are their whole world.

A few more years and they’ll drop into the real world, realize they’re on their own.

In a week’s time, all the schools break up for their six weeks of summer and then it will be much quieter around here at this time of day. I’ve been trying not to think about the summer, about what I’m going to do every day, but you know what happens when you try not to think of something. Suddenly it’s all you can think about.

I’ve had a cool idea bouncing around my head for a few days. I’ve been thinking that maybe I could convince Dad to take me with him on a couple of jobs, so I can see what he really does for a living.

It might be interesting and I could properly help him out so he can see I’m not a kid any more. I could see some different places and I’d be able to spend time with Dad instead of being on my own in the flat for days on end.

All I have to do is pick the right time to ask him, and to do that, he needs to be home. I dig into my pocket and peer at the scant pile of coins in my hand. Three pounds and eighty-two pence. No chance of a takeaway pizza tonight then.

There’s half a pint of milk, a yogurt and an egg in the fridge. Plus six slices of white bread with a few dots of green on, which doesn’t bother me because I’ll be toasting it anyway. And mould is only penicillin, so it won’t kill me.

I reach the top of St Ann’s Well Road and the steepness levels off at last, bending to the left on to Mapperley Top.

I glance across at the big gated houses, wondering who they are trying to keep out and whether it feels different to wake up and go to bed at night when you live in a place like that. The air seems clearer up here, the sky bluer. Our flat is only about half a mile away at the bottom of the hill, but it feels like a whole world apart.

I walk for another ten minutes and just before I turn into the estate, I pass the Expressions community building across the road. Built last year from European funding, the brickwork glows a vibrant terracotta in the sunlight.

This is where Hugo Fox is going to be running his workshops, where film directors will come and talk to us no-hopers.

The gates are closed and locked now, but it will be opening up soon for the Friday evening activities they run.

Last week, the manager rang Dad to pop over and secure an outside door after an attempted break-in. Some people just can’t bear to see anything new and nice around here.

‘Arty types with more money than sense,’ Dad always says.

Mr Rhodes, the drama teacher, took us down for a look at the start of the spring term. Inside it still smells new and the toilets are clean with no wee on the floor or graffiti on the walls.

I’ve never been to any of their workshops but I like the newness of the building. It feels like someone important remembered our shoddy estate was tucked away back here and still thought we were worth investing in. It’s a cool place to hang out, nobody bothers you, and you can watch the activities even if you don’t want to take part. It’s warmer than the flat in the winter months, too.

Since I walked to school this morning, something has been attached to the railings of the gates. A poster, or something similar, is encased in a plastic sleeve to protect it against the weather.

I cross over the road and take a quick look round before I stop to read the sheet. I don’t want word getting back to the lads I’m interested in doing a daft drama class or something else they’d think is naff.

When I see the sheet’s printed headline, I freeze.

The traffic sounds from the main road, the birds tweeting in the trees, and even the bus that passes me full of tired-looking passengers – everything fades into the background.

SEND US YOUR SCRIPT!

A lingering buzz travels from the top of my head right down to my big toes.

My eyes scan the poster, picking out the main bits.

Happily we have secured European funding . . . for young people working with Expressions to make a short film, set in the Mapperley, St Ann’s or Dales wards. We are inviting local young people aged 13–18 to submit a screenplay on the subject: ‘A Place I Want to Go’ . . .

I could write a screenplay and send it in! Instead of just doing it in my head, I could actually put something down on paper. But what would I write about that would be interesting enough to make a film about? All I really know about is life on the estate, and nobody is interested in that. St Ann’s isn’t a place anyone wants to go to or find out about.

The buzz is replaced by a clammy crawl that slowly covers my skin.

I enjoyed the daydream; it was nice while it lasted. Linford, Jack and Harry would fall about laughing if they knew I’d nearly been sucked in.

Entering a competition like this is just the sort of thing that other people do. Probably someone who lives in one of those big gated houses up on Mapperley Top. Some kid who’s travelled the world and had professional training, knows how to set stuff out like a proper script. But something still makes me slide out one of the photocopies from behind the display poster, fold it up and tuck it into the side pocket of my rucksack. I might read it later, if I’ve nothing better to do.

Just as I’m resealing the Velcro strip on my bag, I see a quick movement out of the corner of my eye. On the other side of the building someone just dashed behind the bins, I’m sure of it.

The building itself is all locked up so I doubt it’s a member of the Expressions staff. I move away from the metal swirls of the gate and walk around the side where I can see a bit clearer through the wire fencing.

There it is again, a flash of movement.

And then . . . nothing.

I stand and watch for a couple more minutes.

The road is quiet, the birdsong uninterrupted, and everything is still and undisturbed once more.

Whoever it was has found a way of disappearing.

Whoever it was doesn’t want to be seen.