He glances down the line of Midnighters; they breathe heavily, sit awkwardly, crusty boots undone, dirty laces trailing. Maybe they’re his protection, his ballast against the past; broken men, sung to by little boys, certainly no angels themselves. Ordinary yet extraordinary, all of them. A rush of wonder flows through him. Maybe Martin was right, his family debris is insignificant compared to this grandeur, this depth. Ridiculous, he knows, but the feeling that this chapel loves him is strong as ever. Here’s Phillip! Still thin, more stooped, head tilting to one side with that sense of purpose, a job to be done. The choristers peel away, flowing into the stalls on either side of the aisle.

It’s then that William discovers there are no barriers to time travel here. Because nothing has changed; the candle holders, the lights, the kneelers, the ironwork at the end of each pew. As the boys take their places and arrange their music, William can’t stop the descent to a place deep within. He’s in dual time now, alongside the grown Martin and his shuffling, smelly Midnighters, but equally, alongside his thirteen-year-old self, about to sing Allegri’s ‘Miserere’.

‘The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit.’ The dean’s words are as familiar to William as his own name. ‘A broken and a contrite heart, O God, Thou wilt not despise. Let us humbly confess our sins to Almighty God.’

There’s nothing to be done. Time and place have buckled, and William is caught in the very moment from which he has been running for thirteen years.

56

Lined up in the narthex, the choristers feel the bulge of expectation in the air. Usually on high days, William imagines the chapel’s excitement at having so many extra bodies. Today, there’s no space in him for that kind of fancy. He is simply terrified.

He looks left at Martin, who stares straight ahead. Since the caning two weeks ago and what happened afterwards in the toilets, he and Martin haven’t spoken, haven’t looked each other in the eye. Yesterday, in the changing rooms after rugby, someone shouted, ‘Don’t stand with your back to Mussey!’ and William simply carried on buttoning his shirt.

The organ starts, loud and riotous, and William could scream at it all. Here he is, on the day he’s dreamed of since he was five, and yet he’s never felt as wretched and anxious. At the threshold of the chapel, Martin dips his head close to William, so swift and sudden it makes him jump.

‘Did you send the letter to your uncle?’

‘Yes,’ William replies. ‘I should have listened to you.’

Martin raises his eyebrows and exhales, cheeks like ping-pong balls. ‘What did you say?’

‘Not much – “Just leaving Cambridge for Swansea. Back in two weeks for William’s big day. Please come. Both of you. I’m sorry.”’

Martin says nothing.