I notice that one of the lads has a delicate look about him, as though he’s not completely right in the head. He flexes his hands, exercising them. He mutters something under his breath. A low soft sound. I tell him to speak up, if he has anything to contribute we had better hear it and that I’m all ears. The lake has a soft ripple as if the presence of the clouds is pulling at the surface of the water. I speak calmly and I tell the boy to put the ring back and something about my tone is enough to make him wind up the rope, and I suppose I have picked out the most vulnerable one. When he is finished, I walk away with Mikey and Joey. They ask me why I chose that one particular boy to put the ring back. I tell them I picked him because he was the closest to it.

I don’t tell them that I feed off weakness.

The picnic is successful enough in terms of variety although I will not be sorry if I never see another morsel of pasta in this life again. I swear to God it makes me constipated but the kids can’t seem to get enough of the stuff. We sit at our regular picnic table and I have a pain at the lower part of my back from the hardness of the bench. The sky has turned almost black and my fingertips are freezing and yet I put on a brave face. I am well aware that I will not get away with using the cold as a reason not to have a kickabout. The boys are already putting on goalie gloves and trying to do squat thrusts on the uneven grass. Jenny sips coffee from a thermos flask and she looks around at the trees and the mounds of grass as if she is seeking some answers. A group of tourists are sitting by the circle of stones in the expanse. From here I can hear American accents and I can feel myself flinch.