The rest of the day was to be like this: a seemingly endless parade of people talking gently to me, pretending they were my friend in order to find out everything about me.

At the police station, I was taken to a room labeled FAMILY SERVICES, where there were sofas and a television playing a cartoon film about a little fish to the empty room. A plastic ride-on police car was next to a bookshelf with mainly picture books and one or two battered children’s paperbacks, and a box of soft toys.

Sangeeta pointed out the books before asking, in a voice that proved she had practiced sounding as natural and relaxed as she could, “Can you read OK, Alfie? And write?”

The truth? This would be the truth:

“Thank you, Miss Prasad. I am proficient in Old Norse, Old English, Middle English, and Modern English, plus French, Latin, Greek (ancient and modern, although they are not so dissimilar), and a smattering of Welsh and Scots Gaelic.”

I did not say that, of course. Instead I just nodded. I was not insulted. I knew she was just doing her job.

She showed me the shower room, and left me with soap and a towel, and a pile of clothes from Marks & Spencer, all new, with the labels attached, that appeared in the changing area as if by magic. They must have had a cupboard full of them. I had never worn proper boys’ jeans before. They were thick and stiff, with machine stitching, quite well made. The white shoes were nice. Trainers? Sneakers? I think they are sneakers.

Lunch was something in a box called a Happy Meal from McDonald’s, which I have heard of, of course, but I have never had before. For some reason, there was a plastic toy with it. The food was nice but the drink was too sweet and I had water instead from the tap.

The doctor was all right, but she asked more questions than Sangeeta. As she removed the bandages that Roxy had put on, she said, “Hmm. Not a bad home dressing, Alfie. Who did that for you?”

I said nothing as she set about cleaning the burn. It hurt like flaming hell, but I gritted my teeth and made no sound.

“You’re a tough lad, Alfie.”

I wished they would all stop using my name so much. I know it is to make them seem friendlier, but it is annoying.

“How did you come by this injury?”

I stayed quiet.

They cannot force me to talk.

She gave me a thorough checkup: head lice, blood pressure, saliva samples, height, weight, everything.

“And how old did you say you were, Alfie?” she asked, her pen poised over a printed sheet, which she was filling in.

I had not said. I could have said, “One thousand and eleven.”

If I had, what then? Would things have been different?

“I’m eleven,” I said.

“Uh-huh. OK. And your date of birth.”

This was trickier but I had worked it out earlier. I told her the year that would make me eleven, and added, “September the first.” Everything was part of the plan.

Then, as I sat there with fresh bandages and a full stomach, the questions began in earnest. I knew they would.

Sangeeta came into the sofa room with another woman, who introduced herself as Vericka from North Tyneside Social Services. She was older, with short white hair, glasses on a chain round her neck, and a face that looked permanently slightly annoyed.

They both had thick notepads and sheaves of forms. We may be here a while, I thought.

“All right, Alfie. We have to ask you a few questions, do you understand?”

I nodded, and it started. Gently at first. Name, age, and then:

“Can we ask you about your mum, pet?”

I nodded and told them her name and age, all according to the plan.

They wrote in their pads.

“Where do you go to school, Alfie?”

“I do not go to school. I am home educated. Home-ed.”

Home-ed. That is the slang, is it not?

“I see,” said Sangeeta. “Only you don’t appear on the home-education register.”

I shrugged, as if to say, “That is your problem, not mine.” Sangeeta and Vericka exchanged a glance.

“And who is your family doctor, Alfie?”

Shrug.

“Do you ever see a doctor?”

I shook my head.

“Don’t you ever get sick?” asked Vericka, a bit crossly, I thought.

I shook my head again, only this time my answer was more or less true. Coughs, colds, occasional tummy aches, but nothing you would bother a doctor about. Mam had remedies for most things.

“Do you have any family, Alfie? Anybody you can stay with?”

I shook my head. That was the truth. There was just Mam and me.

Sangeeta pressed on. “No one at all? An aunty, an uncle? Maybe living somewhere else? Family friends?” She was getting desperate. “Anyone at all?”

Shrug. Another look between Sangeeta and Vericka.

And so it continued for another hour, and I still stuck to the plan.

I was left alone for a little while after that, and then Sangeeta came in with yet another woman, and I was beginning to forget all their names now. Began with an “L.” Anyway, she was a “Child Bereavement Counselor” who asked me if I wanted to talk about Mam, and, when I said no, proceeded to ask me all about her anyway, forcing me to remember, and that made me cry, which I hated.

She said she would meet me another time, and told me I could always call her up, or ask to see her anytime (which was unlikely), and that she would inform me about Mam’s funeral.

After she left, in came a man. Almost the first man I had spoken to all day. I do not know, really, why I was pleased about that, but I was.

He was called Robbie. He was a Fire Investigations Officer. He wanted to know about the fire. I told him everything I knew.

Well, almost everything.