It’s a Year 10 group. A lot of boys with curtain haircuts hanging onto Set You Free by optimistic urban troubadours N-Trance whilst dealing with the head-to-head joy of Oasis vs Blur, Sadie Frost in a shopping trolley and Titanic. It must be the mid-1990s. You can occasionally find yourself with a class where you are constantly trying to keep the peace, stimulate discussion, juggle personalities and prevent any ‘braying’. That’s a fight, to you and me.

This is them.

This was the class with hysterical double-act Troy and Brett, legends both, but not for this tale. They deserve their own book, and I need to relay this particular educationalist learning point to you at this time. Please “park up” Troy and Brett for now.

So in they come. And they are in sober mood. They’ve just had what we call in our school PSE, which unfortunately (at this time) is an hour of worksheets from a photocopiable teacher-workbook that the head of PSE got from a PSE course led by the gent who had written the workbook. You follow?

The class are peeved. Not as much as me though, as this isn’t even my lesson. I’m covering them for this hour as the RE teacher is away. I then have them after morning break. I could be looking at the growing collection of confiscated Tazos on the main staffroom table during my free lesson, but instead, I am here.

To be fair, I’m glad to see them - better the devil you know and all that. AND I have the welcome opportunity to get them primed for my English lesson after break. It’s nearly win-win. But not quite.

I check the scrawled cover sheet offering me alleged guidance as to what I’m doing with Year 10 for the next hour of religious education.

It’s OK, actually. I knew it would be. The head of RE is ace. Good stuff to do in a cover is welcome. Especially with this crowd.

“What were your worksheets about?” I ask Mason who plonks himself at the front, under my nose, clearly adhering to a seating plan.

“Chuffin’ bullying again. I wouldn’t mind Sir, but it gives us ideas. It’s like Top Tips for bullies!”

He breaks a smile and I join in.

“You laugh, Sir, but I’ll be gerrin’ mi head kicked in later! Ha ha! All thanks to chuffin’ PSE”

I tell Mason it’ll be good for him in the long run.

Pretty soon, the cries of “what we doing?” fill the room and I stick up a poster of the crucifixion on the whiteboard. It’s a good image to be fair - it’s emotive and effective. We talk about it and the class are with me (and inside I’m inappropriately dancing with relief that this might all be fine).

There’s a textbook that I’ve been instructed to read from, so I do. It tells of the four centurions dividing up Jesus’ clothes and the one soldier who pierces Jesus’ side with a spear. Jesus is already dead. He has been through a real ordeal. This life is over for him for now. I embellish the story, as it’s a little dry in the textbook.

“What were they doing that for?” asks Mason

“The soldiers?” I ask

“Yeah. I mean, he were already dead. Why stab him? And why nick his clothes?”

“Well…,” I begin to offer, but am saved by Carrie, who, adhering to the seating plan, is right at the back of the room and bright as a gold clock.

“They didn’t believe in Him, Mason. They stabbed him to show everyone he was dead. He was finished.”

I’m struggling today to put into words how Mason responds. It is without malice or bitterness. It is child-like and uncorrupted. It is a loud whisper aimed at no-one:

“Well, the rotten bastards.”

And the fog descends.

It is an echo lost in time.

Hywel Roberts is a travelling teacher and curriculum imaginer. He tweets as @hywel_roberts