Mathew made no noise at all as the blows fell; shock had rendered him silent. From his position on his side, Mathew looked up to see what was to come next. Four masked men surrounded him. The closest was holding the crowbar, a second twisted a foot-long metal torch in his hands and the last two were unarmed, but their gloved fists were clenched so tight that Mathew could see their knuckles. Mathew desperately tried to make sense of what was happening, why they seemed so angry with him, but it didn’t make any sense. He’d done nothing wrong, except order a pizza behind his parents’ backs, but he was certain that had nothing to do with these men being in his home.

As Mathew hugged his aching ribs, a third blow from a boot struck him in the backside. The men laughed, which, again, Mathew couldn’t understand. He even said as much: ‘Not funny!’ The giggling stopped and the beating began. Boots and weapons rained down on his body, all the time Mathew shouting, ‘I’m sorry! You can laugh! I’m sorry, I’m sorry! You can laugh if you want to!’ The man holding the crowbar then stood back and watched the others continue the beating. When this man finally stepped towards Mathew, all of the others immediately stopped hurting him, and Mathew was grateful. This man was in charge; he could tell. ‘Thank you,’ Mathew whimpered, and blood spilt from his mouth. The man’s head cocked to one side, his part-hidden mouth smirked, and he raised the crowbar. Mathew cried out in fear, screwed his eyes tight shut and wrapped his arms around his head waiting for the blow to land. Nothing. Mathew opened his eyes to see what the man in charge was doing. He was standing, arm frozen in the air, crowbar poised. ‘I promise to only hit you once more,’ the man whispered. ‘But where? Where shall I hit you?’ He shifted the position of the crowbar, as though he was going to strike Mathew on the legs. As Mathew flung his arms low, the man seemed to change his mind and instead aimed for Mathew’s head, then his chest, then his legs again. And so it went on, with the man pretending to strike Mathew, and Mathew desperately trying to follow his movements and defend himself against the one final blow that never came. As Mathew writhed about like a dying fish, the gang laughed at him and called him the most terrible names. Finally, when the man was bored with his game, he sharply brought the crowbar down in a fake blow towards Mathew’s legs, then quickly diverted upwards and cracked him round the back of his skull. Mathew stopped moving, his eyes open, but expressionless. Shock had taken over. Mathew’s brain refused to acknowledge the pain and made his body play dead, whilst it worked out what to do next.