“My name’s not Mole,” he said, in his squeaky voice that had not yet broken. He stood, naked, in the bathroom of his new boarding school, The Cloisters, in Surrey. It was the start of the second week of term. “You are gross, Mole!” Gossage said. A boy pinched the layers of flab on his stomach so hard he cried out in pain. “What do you call that?” “That hurt, you creep!” “Who’s Mole calling a creep?” Gore-Parker said. “Me? I’m a creep?” “Are you calling Gore-Parker a creep?” taunted Chaffinch, a piggy-faced boy who definitely was fatter than himself—except no one seemed to notice. “Leave me alone.” He stepped into the shower and turned on the taps. “Listen, you arrogant piece of whale blubber,” Gore-Parker said, “you kept us all awake in the dorm last night wanking.” “I was bloody not wanking.” “I’m surprised you can even find your dick under all that blubber,” Gossage said. The others pealed with laughter. “Tell you what, Mole, you like tunnels, why don’t you dig yourself a nice little tunnel out in the woods where you can go and wank away to your heart’s content?”
