Edward was in my coach. What did they call him—Eddie? Ted? If only I had caught a glimpse of his face this morning, but it had all been too quick.

My heart was hammering; it had moved up my throat. When I tried to change into third, the gears crashed. I pushed the gear stick again; my hands were shaking.

I drove along the road, past the bungalows and the sign saying JESUS IS WATCHING YOU. I could hardly breathe; I was gripped with a reckless exhilaration, as if I’d just led a prison break-out. One of these boys was my son; I had him at last.

I stopped at the intersection and sneaked another look in the mirror. They all wore purple football shirts; they were giggling and chattering. Some of them jumped up and swopped seats. They looked ridiculously similar.

At the intersection I turned right and put my foot down, driving out of Deal. If this was the wrong way to the games field, none of them had noticed yet. People don’t, for ages; once they’re sitting in a coach they turn into passengers and presume the driver knows where he’s going.

The road split into a dual carriageway; I crashed the gears into fourth and we roared along at 60 mph. One of the boys whooped. The sun came out and I had an absurd urge to burst into hysterical laughter, or song. I wanted to bellow at the top of my lungs.

At the next signpost I jammed on the brakes and swerved off to the left. Another whoop. We passed the last few houses and soon we were speeding along beside open fields, heading straight towards the low winter sun. It blazed in the windscreen. With my trembling hand I shaded my eyes. I thought: all this time I’ve been picturing one little boy, sitting in my coach. Now I’ve got thirty of the buggers. I juddered with silent, horrified laughter. Which one should I choose? What was the difference anyway?

‘Drat it,’ said a voice in the seat behind, ‘left me condoms at home.’

Somebody sniggered. Then another voice piped up: ‘One drug addict says to the other, can I borrow your needle? No, ’cos you might catch AIDS. It’s all right, he says, I’ve got a condom on.’

I steadied my hands on the wheel. A hot flush rose up my neck. I heard them sniggering; the joke was being repeated, down the coach. There was a far guffaw. Ahead of me, through the filthy windscreen, the sun winked.

I drove on, keeping my eyes on the road. I told myself I hadn’t heard what they had said, they weren’t really like that. Christ, they were only eleven years old. I felt sick.

‘Intercourse,’ I heard quite distinctly. Or something like that.

One boy called: ‘Pass it here!’

Then another voice shouted: ‘Tickler! Tickler!’