I look up at him and shake my head.

‘Share your genius with us, chap,’ he says.

Our eyes lock. ‘I can’t,’ I whisper.

He grins at me. ‘Come off it. Play us out, Mr Morcombe.’ He nods his head in a you-know-it-makes-sense fashion.

‘Please,’ I say. I’m not even sure any sound comes out.

‘Come on,’ he says. The warmth is fading from his tone. He crouches so he’s level with me. ‘Share your talent.’

I can’t avoid this. I want to run, but I know I can’t. I’m trapped and the only way out is via that piano. His brown, weathered hand reaches out to my shoulder and I don’t resist as it guides me to my feet. The cramp in my stomach is so severe that I can’t straighten my torso.

Stooped forward, I race ahead of him to the front of the hall. I can’t let anyone see my face, give them the joy of seeing the tears that well in the corners of my eyes. The sooner I start, the sooner this will be over.

The applause and the whistles might sound genuine to the uninitiated. But I know they’re mocking me, willing me to fail.

I stare only at the keys before me. I let my right hand, slippery and trembling, rest on the yellowed ivory. My cheeks puff outwards as a sudden belch is ejected from my gut.

I know I can still do this. I play every week for Miss Morgan. I don’t enjoy it, but I can just about do it. These people might have made me hate playing, but they haven’t made me forget how. I focus on just my hands and the keyboard, nothing else. The familiar sight returns me to some sort of order. I orientate myself by placing my right hand over middle C, my left an octave lower.

I dig in my mind for the song. It’s not there. It’s like I’ve never even heard it. I know if I start, if I can just nail the first few notes, I might be able to limp through the whole thing. But I can’t place it.

I feel as if I’ve been kicked in the stomach, the pain radiating outwards like I’ve been winded. My face inflates again with another burst of hot gas from inside me. It doesn’t go unnoticed – there’s some laughter in the front row. I stupidly look round at them. One guy does an impression, blowing out his cheeks, then chuckling at me.

Everyone is whispering. Two hundred hushed voices combine to sound like a high wind, swaying leaves and branches.

‘Get on with it!’ comes a shout.

Just do it. Just fucking play something.