‘In some ways you’re right, of course. I’m a very small piece of the whole. But even the smallest part of a mechanism can be crucial, especially when it goes wrong. And it started going wrong for me very early in the game.’ He hauled himself upright, leaning forward to ensure he had the room’s attention. The crotch-cupping machismo of the previous interview had gone. ‘First few weeks at Tynie, those are the ones you’ve got to get through, and it starts with your name. Me being Francis, that was all they needed to start the ball rolling. A Catholic name, apparently, so I became St Francis of Assisi, Hail Mary Haggard, Il Papa. As it happens, I was born Catholic, not that it was relevant. What mattered was that they had their pigeonhole for me.’

‘Who’s they?’

‘I’m getting to that.’ He paused before continuing. ‘After that, they just kept probing, looking for weak spots. Everyone got the same treatment, and pretty soon I was one of the ones doing the needling, firing likely nicknames at the latest newbie. Is that bully­ing? Indoctrination, maybe? Because if you couldn’t join in the banter, you might as well hand in your notice.’ His eyes flitted from Clarke to Esson and back again. ‘Women were slappers and sows, and if anyone didn’t agree, they were poofs or wimps. So yes, my skin got nice and thick, and sometimes I even led the pack, eager to please the boss, that boss being Alan Fleck. He was our sergeant, and he would look out for us once he’d moulded us. He was always there, standing at the back usually, just watching and maybe drinking the whisky he kept in his desk.