The training hall is quiet when I enter, the faint scent of sweat and rubber still hanging in the air.
The stillness feels wrong after the chaos of an hour ago. As though the room has already forgotten what happened outside it. As though blood had not been spilled, and panic had not ricocheted through the grounds in sharp, ugly bursts.
Now it is only a hall again.
Mats. Storage. Records. Silence.
I move towards the corner where the patrol records are kept.
The previous headmaster used to keep them locked away in his office, as though information itself needed controlling. Grandad changed that. Now they sit out in the open, available to whoever carries responsibility that night.
It makes more sense this way.
Patterns are easier to see when no one is hiding them.
The records stretch
