‘Yeah,’ Will instinctively replies. It’s a lie, of course, but he’s very much in the mode of dealing with a school bully, which this guy almost is. Those people may grow up and blend in with civilization, but their old self is only too happy to be re-awoken with a few pints and some prohibited substances.

‘Who?’ the guy demands.

‘Anyone,’ Will replies. He doesn’t know why he said that.

‘Anyone? Fucking anyone?’ He releases Will’s hand, instead cupping his own on Will’s crotch and squeezing.

Will grabs at the bloke’s wrist but it’s rigid as steel.

‘You had a go on this?’ he asks, nodding at Meera.

‘No,’ Will mumbles.

‘That?’

Will follows his gaze to the far side of the table and Janice. She shakes her head. ‘Hardly,’ she mumbles, as if that’s the most important issue to address right now.

The guy massages firmly between Will’s legs. He grins. ‘You’re getting a hard-on, aren’t you?’

Inexplicably, he is. He can’t imagine feeling less aroused. But, yes, yes, he is getting a hard-on.

‘Like the boys?’ the guy whispers, lips millimetres from Will’s, squeezing hard on the end of his dick, sending spears of pain shooting up to his abdomen.

‘Fuck off!’ Will shouts. He steps backwards. The guy steps forward, taking up the space.

‘Fuck off, cunt!’ Will shouts, trying to wrestle the hand from his genitals.

The guy’s arm flies up from between Will’s legs, grabbing him by the throat instead. In what feels to Will like one movement, he finds himself staring up at the ceiling. He’s not sure how he’s ended up there but he’s laid on his back on the snooker table. His cheek is burning where it’s been scraped along the baize. A cold blue ball rests against his eye socket. And a cue is pinned across his neck.

‘Don’t call me names,’ the guy says.

‘Sorry,’ Will forces past his crushed vocal cords. He feels a hot tear running past his left ear.

‘How sorry?’

Will says nothing.

‘Sorry enough to kiss my feet?’ The man adds a little more weight to his cue.

Will can hardly breathe now but gives a tiny yet emphatic nod. He slowly rises from the table as the cue is released.

‘Don’t, Will,’ Meera says, not looking at him. ‘You don’t have to do that.’

Will looks at the balls scattered on the table. He could grab one in an open fist. He could swing it straight at this bloke’s face. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t even seriously consider it. Will Parks is not the sort of person who can bring himself to really hurt somebody, to draw blood or break bone, and it would seem right now that there is shame in that fact.