Nine forty-five Tuesday morning, Kevin Milne stumbled out of the van, tired and frightened. The driver had pulled up at the back entrance to avoid the glare of the press. It hadn’t been a good night for Kevin; he’d cried and felt sorry for himself. He wasn’t sure whether the plan was going to work. What if he changed? He could keep his eye on the long view, but what if something about all of this changed him? He was the only person he could ever trust, ever rely on–if that went, he didn’t know what he’d do.

Here he was, walking through a corridor. It was a private corridor, separating him from the other prisoners. A helpful prison guard had told him, with a smile on his face, that threats had been made on his life and the authorities doubted they could guarantee his safety if he was placed in the cells along with the other accused.

Kevin stared at his feet. He placed one foot after the other on the polished concrete floor, and felt eyes upon him. Civil servants were hiding in the rooms, staring out of half-opened doors, all desperate to boast in the pub after work that they had seen Child X. He felt sick; his stomach was churning and he wanted to vomit. He would have, too, if it would have helped, but he thought he would just want to throw up all over again, so what was the point in starting? The new clothes his mother had bought him for court were two sizes too small, even allowing for the fact that he’d piled on the pounds. The bottom of his trousers ended two inches above his ankle, and he thought that he looked stupid–or maybe his mother was smarter than he gave her credit for. She’d had her share of court experiences–perhaps she’d thought it would help if he looked pathetic. He was wearing an Argyll knitted sweater with a diamond pattern. No one had worn such a thing since the 1950s, but it was the furthest jumper Kate could get from a hoody.

Kevin was at this moment separated off from everyone he knew. Renee had travelled to court under a separate escort, and the authorities were determined they would never associate together again: except, of course, in the dock.

The guards led him into a large room. This was the holding area for prisoners in custody who were due to appear in court. It was empty except for a couple of grey plastic chairs placed against opposite walls. The vomit-green paintwork was badly damaged, names scratched into the plaster with knives, or gang names scrawled with felt-tip pen. It smelled of piss, unwashed bodies and industrial disinfectant. He was getting used to that smell.