‘Dele iniquitatem meam,’ the basses finish – Do away mine offences.

Uncle Robert’s hand is on her shoulder. The first solo is coming for him. Phillip will be leaning forward, his inclined head ready to nod his invitation. But look! Evelyn jumps and spins round. Robert gives a muted wave and – oh! – a flash of blood in Howard’s hand. Tulips! He’s giving her red tulips! Only the back of her head is visible to him.

The music gathers.

With swift efficiency, Evelyn knocks the flowers from Howard’s hand and slaps his face. Robert’s body jumps in surprise and the tulips fly upwards, towards the startled saints above. Single scarlet petals take wing, following their own trajectories for a second before drifting down, to land on a shoulder, a head, a forearm. The bouquet lands with less grace on Mr Mussey’s lap.

William’s throat locks. He can’t breathe. Now! ‘Amplius lava me ab iniquitate mea.’ Sky diving without a parachute. The chapel fills with the otherworldly, almost inhuman sound. Pure. Perfect. Top B.

Wash me thoroughly from my wickedness.

The clerk swoops down on Evelyn like a raven and holds her elbow. He’s taking her away. She looks over her shoulder at him she leaves.

Here it comes. ‘Et a peccato meo munda me.’

Top C.

And cleanse me from my sin.

Drop down to the B. Rock-steady as the tenors weave and curl around it.

Howard has a red stripe on his cheek. His mother has been removed from the chapel. His uncle’s eyes are tiny silver saucers.

He can’t stand this. He can’t look any more. Yet now, the simple act of switching his gaze back to Phillip is like a jump from one planet to another. But he must stop this torture, return to the safe place of his choirmaster’s face. And it’s only then, when he sees that Phillip’s concentration is not on him at all, but on his friend beside him, that it hits him. With an icy tingle running from head to toe, William realises he hasn’t sung a single note. It was Martin all along.

There are four solos left. He won’t waste a second more on his despicable mother. He’s back and he’s ready and it’s all he has left. William breathes, straightens, focuses entirely on Phillip. With two bars to go, he follows each note on the score, his eyes switching from music to Phillip. Music, Phillip. Nothing. Else. Phillip. Music.

But Phillip doesn’t lean towards him. Doesn’t even look at him. As if William has ceased to exist, it’s Martin Phillip invites. And the next time, and the time after that, and the time after that, even though William’s concentration doesn’t waver for a second.