One afternoon in Airdrie Academy, I was sent to our flamboyant head of English’s classroom. It was empty and he was in the corner smoking a Marlboro Red out of the window.

“Why are you here?’ he asked, cigarette still in hand, smoke winding past the bookcase. “Referral,” I replied. “On you go then,” he nodded back out the door and our gentleman’s agreement was complete. Things were definitely different then. He was one of the good ones and one of my only advocates.

“Why are you here?” is a philosophical question we should ask all our young men in schools in the West of Scotland. Mandatory attendance will likely be the answer.

For me, school discipline lost its impact quickly. Punishment exercises. Behaviour/doggers cards. Guidance referrals. Detentions. Exclusions. I would be cheeky, or talk, or not bother to open my book or wear a tie - and be sent outside to the corridor.

Almost inevitably, a year head or grumpy guidance teacher would spontaneously appear and escalate the situation. Eventually, they would just pass by with a shake of the head. I was suspended five times for trivial nonsense. There was a utilitarian policy of exclusion as the primary response then: do not pass go. I had become a “usual suspect” of Airdrie neds in the school, part of the earmarked waste-of-space no-hopers.

Outside of school, the violence intensified and charges started to mount up, with many reports sent to the Children’s Reporter for possession of cannabis, breach of the peace, assault and so on.

A pupil joined our school from another in the area and he and I were a toxic mix. While dogging school to smoke cannabis was practically the norm, we began drinking Buckfast and cheap cider during school. This was the beginning of the end. A challenging pupil offered me a fight after a heated interaction. I headbutted him and it was caught on CCTV. I was suspended, he wasn’t. I decided to dog school the following day after news of my exclusion and drink with this new boy.

How a teacher turned my life around

We ended up wasted and, on my way home, I encountered the challenger again. I assaulted him and kicked him in the head then was restrained by a teacher. I was a gang member who had been conditioned to think that that level of violence was commonplace and acceptable. This was game over. I was permanently expelled before the authority and charged by the police.

I found myself out of mainstream education for three months, aged just 14. This was a massive strain on my mum. She was at her wit’s end. I was now to attend Coatbridge High School. Coatbridge’s gang culture was incredibly violent; more akin to inner-city Glasgow. On my first day, the headteacher, Mr Rawlinson - a big man, 6ft 4in; a former rugby coach with a thick moustache - asked me to come into his office before first period. He surveyed my Berghaus Mera Peak and gold hoops in each ear and told me to take a seat. Then without another word, he laughed. “You’re going to be very popular down here. But let me tell you something, son. If you think Airdrie was bad, you’re out of the frying pan and into the fire.” I had no idea what he meant.

Street education

My introduction to the infamous LL TOI gang followed soon after. Within weeks, I would be one of them, hanging around there on Friday nights and embedded within Coatbridge’s gang culture. Impartiality was impossible. Their enemies became my enemies. Traditional education barely got a look-in. This was a street education.

My attendance dropped to below 70 per cent. I was lost in a labyrinth of drugs and gangs. A male PE teacher shouted at me in a corridor one day and we had some strong words. “UP TO YOUR YEAR HEAD. NOW! MOVE IT!” He marched me towards the office and, in his rage, began to storm up the stairs. I waited, then ducked out of the fire escape. He realised, then chased me on to the street. I was already outside the gates and away. The built teacher put his arms wide and shouted: “GET BACK IN HERE, RIGHT NOW!” He was being aggressive. I responded. “Fucking shut it, ya dick! Wit yi gonnae dae noo?” The streets were our domain. He lost it. I had never sworn at a teacher or had a violent incident like this before. It had literally started out of nothing. I left and he marched back inside. I lit a cigarette and walked away angrily into the rain.

The next morning, Mr Rawlinson sat behind the desk and I waited for the killer blow. “Well done,” he said. “Wit?” I reply. “Well done,” he said again. “Fur wit, Sir?” I asked, genuinely confused. “For attempting to de-escalate.” I had zero clue what he meant.

“My staff member chased you on to a street and acted aggressively. You responded in the typical fashion of a daft 15-year-old boy but, by leaving, there was a clear will to disengage,” he said. “Do you have anything to add to this summation?”

I held my hands up. “I shouldn’t have sworn at him.” He nodded. “So, there’s definitely an apology to be made, yes?” I agreed.

He brought the PE teacher in and I said my piece first. “I was out of line,” I offered. He graciously accepted and also apologised. Mr Rawlinson nodded. “Testosterone is a powerful chemical, gentlemen. Let’s not see a repeat.” We shook hands. Value was built. We never collided again.

Months later, I’d stayed on at the school. I was in a fifth-year free period where this PE teacher was the babysitter. He noticed me reading a book and seemed impressed. The book was Trainpotting. It made sense to me, as three of our extended group had just died of heroin overdoses. I was just 16. Trainspotting spoke to me so deeply that it’s hard to communicate it on the page. I felt like the inevitable tragic trajectory of my own path had somehow detoured. I began telling teachers I was going to stay on and go to university to study English, and harness this new-found academic passion.

One teacher tried to manage my expectations: “Graeme, there’s too much reading in university for someone like you.” Another did an impression of me - with added neddy accent - before the class, stating: “I’m Graeme Armstrong, I’m a great cunt, me!” Then he asked: “Who’s going to give you a job?” He hated me. I told him defiantly: “I’m not needing a job cos I’m not leaving. I’m going to study English at uni.” He replied, “Aye, right.”

Some teachers wanted me expelled again. I was still a gang member, still using drugs, but I had another purpose to life now.

Hope is a dangerous thing. Unfortunately, the English Higher exam fell on the 15 May 2008, the day after Rangers were in the UEFA Cup final. I drank all day before and absolutely bombed it. I failed and achieved an F. One of my strongest critics, an English teacher, walked past me (after hearing my result) and winked. I was absolutely devastated. I had proven them all right.

My sixth year was last-chance saloon. I was dumped in a Higher English class full of sixth-year resitters and fifth years. My texts were The Great Gatsby by F Scott Fitzgerald and The Crucible by Arthur Miller. Gatsby spoke to me in a similar way that Trainspotting had. It told me I could read anything and be transported anywhere by literature. I read and read and practised every past paper in the book.

My troops walked past me one lunchtime before a prelim with my head in a text about the Weimar Republic. I was crashing history. “Mate, are you reading a fucking book?” one asked; the rest laughed. “Aye, sure am!” I realised this was it. I was fighting for a future and, almost certainly, my life.

The University of Stirling finally came back with a conditional offer: BBB, to do English studies with history, joint honours. I literally could not believe it. It felt like an impossible dream. I worked relentlessly and did my best to avoid trouble. The exams came and went, and I waited - probably the most nervous I’ve ever been. The text message alert came through at last:

ENGLISH, A; RMPS (religious, moral and philosophical studies), B; HISTORY, C.

I’d missed my conditions by one grade. My head fell into my hands. It was all over. My mum looked me square in the face. “Don’t you dare feel bad about those grades. You have done amazingly.” I was gutted.

Half an hour later, my acceptance to the University of Stirling came through the letterbox. They took a chance on me. My English grade had pulled me though. I moved to Stirling and gained some distance from my old life. It mostly continued but I had a chance - and that was something to hang on to.

Mr Rawlinson retired a year or two later and, when I heard, I took a card in on his last day. We sat and spoke for an hour, and he told me: “You were my last success.”

The power of faith

On the way out of the office, Mr Rawlinson told me something I’ve held close for many years: “You’re a survivor, you know.” I used to tell myself that when I wasn’t sure I would survive all this madness. We shook hands. When people put faith in you, it creates worth, which multiplies and grows with time.

Four years later, I had fought to get myself off drugs and started writing my own novel. That summer, I graduated with a 2:1 in English studies. I stayed on for postgraduate study, gaining a master of letters in creative writing with merit. After another seven years of struggle, working mostly seven days a week and receiving 300 rejections, I was published by Picador, the literary imprint of Pan Macmillan. My novel, The Young Team, became a Times bestseller. In May, I was one of the 2021 winners of the Society of Authors’ Betty Trask award for debut novelists under 35. The book is being adapted for television.

I have held talks in schools about gang culture and have taught English in prison. I live alcohol free and have worked with the Violence Reduction Unit and Community Justice Scotland to make amends for my past, and try to help other young men break free. Some tell me the novel has inspired them to stop using drugs or to do and be better for their families. Some tell me it is the first book they have ever read.

Back in 2009, after my Higher exams, I was in school talking to my history teacher and saying cheerio. On my way out, my year head grabbed me for a quick chat. She told me that during the annual meeting to discuss exam results, Mr Rawlinson had marched in and slammed a copy of mine down on the table. The staff all stared at him. “This is the boy you all threw away,” he’d said. “This is the boy you wanted expelled. An A for Higher English. He’s going to Stirling University!” He never knew I would find that out, but I did, and my heart still bursts when I think about it.

Mr Rawlinson was Coatbridge’s own Coach Carter - a gentle giant who had a superpower for seeing potential others couldn’t, myself included. In March 2020, he came to my book launch at the Sauchiehall Street Waterstones in Glasgow and I shook that great man’s hand once again.

Graeme Armstrong is a BA (Hons) M Litt graduate from the University of Stirling and author of the bestselling novel The Young Team, which is being adapted for television

This article originally appeared in the 25 June 2021 issue under the headline “I got a second chance at life - thanks to a teacher’s faith in me”