Wait. He really can’t breathe. The mermaid has vanished. He is awake, but his mouth is still covered; a body weighs down on his. In a panic, he shoves it away, is finally able to breathe in, ready to shout out, but a big fleshy hand stifles it.

‘Shhh, it’s only me.’ Martin’s whisper is quieter than breath. His face eclipses the room.

‘What are you doing?’ William’s heart is flinging itself against the cage of his ribs.

‘I thought you wanted it.’ William feels Martin’s erection against his stomach. He pushes him away again, twisting his face from Martin’s.

‘Well, I don’t.’ His throat strains with the force of such whispering. ‘Get off!’

Martin looks at William, a crease at the top of his nose, then pulls away suddenly, drops back against the pillow. William glances at him. His eyes are silvery from the moonlight glancing in through the naked window.

‘Bloody hell, Martin,’ William whispers. ‘I didn’t know.’

‘I didn’t either. I just wanted to kiss you.’

‘I’m sorry.’ William talks to the ceiling. ‘I don’t.’

Martin returns to his own bed, his pyjamas bright in the moonlight.

28

Evelyn’s burgundy tweed dress is tight at her small waist. A cardigan the same colour is draped round her shoulders. Ash Wednesday is two weeks away, and as Martin had predicted, the ‘Miserere’ is William’s. In his pocket, folded up with his exeat, is a letter from Uncle Robert. He doesn’t know when he’s going to get it out, but he knows at some point he’ll have to.

Last night, having refolded the crumpled letter and put it in his trouser pocket ready for the next day, William calculated that he and his mother must have had twelve lunches at the Copper Kettle over the last three and a half years. There are other cafes, but they have always sat and gazed out on King’s Parade, at the lace-like stonework, the glassless windows and slender pillars tipped with crosses. Evelyn, always luminous at seeing him, has brought funny stories and baked treats in a box. She’s always dug for details of his chorister life; lessons, Martin’s misdemeanours, what nice things Phillip has said during choir practice. There have been times, of course, when hiccoughs of irritation interrupted their chatter, but on the whole, they’ve enjoyed their lunches and he’s looked forward to seeing her.

‘So, how’s that scallywag Martin?’ Evelyn pulls the cardigan round her shoulders before resting her forearms on the table and leaning towards him. ‘Any tales to tell?’