‘I don’t, but I go in there so often, I’ve got to keep my self-respect somehow. It’s a one-off for you.’

Now he’s actually standing there, William wishes he’d asked Martin, who is waiting his turn outside the study, to tell him exactly what was going to happen.

Mr Atkinson stands next to William, and his heart takes off like a trapped bird. What now? Does he bend down? Does he wait to be told to bend down? How far does he bend? All the way? Halfway? Why the hell didn’t he ask Martin?

‘Bend over.’

‘Please let me sing, sir!’ William can’t help himself.

‘Down!’

He hasn’t anticipated how intolerable this moment would be: face to the floor, backside offered up. He probably didn’t need to bend this far; he’s touching his toes. The silence is absurd and humiliating.

When it comes, the crack of pain is far worse than he imagined. His body jolts upwards. He bites his mouth and tastes blood. Upside down, he can see Mr Atkinson’s pressed black trousers, and when the crease shifts quickly to the left, William braces. The cane hits exactly the same spot, as does the next and the next, leaving his flesh twitching.

Mr Atkinson walks back to his side of the desk, puts the cane in the drawer and sits. William stands ramrod-straight, fists clenched. Their eyes meet and Mr Atkinson’s gaze drops down to the rug so quickly that, for the briefest of seconds, William is sure it’s shame he sees on his headmaster’s face.

Martin straightens from his slouch against the wall, but William doesn’t acknowledge him. Rushing to the toilets, he hears Mr Atkinson.

‘You again.’

Standing against the cubicle wall, taking care that his roaring flesh doesn’t touch anything, William swipes at his tears and wishes he were bigger than this, that he could laugh it off, parade his wounds like Martin, as if they’re trophies. But it hurts too much and he is too angry. It’s the first time in his life he’s been hit. The lack of emotion affronted him the most. If he had to be assaulted, a bit of passion, an overflowing of anger would have at least made more sense of it. And as if that wasn’t punishment enough, he’s lost the solo and didn’t even see it coming. He hates Mr Atkinson.

Sooner than he expected, William hears heavy footsteps that stop outside the cubicle.

‘Over and done with now.’ Martin’s soft voice echoes a little in the empty toilets.

William doesn’t want to need Martin at this moment, but at the sound of his voice, he does. It’s not a good idea for William to let him into the cubicle, lean on his chest and sob. But that’s what happens.

‘How many?’ Martin says, when William can speak.

‘Four. You?’