Chapter EightWill was reading through the examples of verbal reasoning tests, when the guy sitting next to him struck up a conversation. He was called Boyd. He had messy hair that curled past his shoulders and silver studs in both nostrils and above his eyebrows. He was wearing a Pixies t-shirt and had anarchy tattooed across his left knuckle. He smelt odd; biker leather mixed with incense oil and the overpowering stench of weed. When he spoke, Will could see chipped yellow teeth and indentations around his mouth that looked like chicken pox scars. Will almost fell off his chair with surprise when he heard that Boyd studied accountancy, with ambitions to set up his own chartered firm.
“Don't let this grungy façade fool you,” Boyd guffawed, spittle flying onto Will's blank paper, “this is
