‘Yes.’ She nodded eagerly, thinking thank God, thank God, but then she saw that he wasn’t being helpful, he was stringing her along for his own amusement, because suddenly he was laughing, and shouting, getting the attention of the men in the yard, who gravitated eagerly towards him.

‘Ey, look ’ere, this lass’s after Toddy,’ he called, and somebody shouted back, ‘Wasting thi time, love, tha not his type,’ and there were hoots and catcalls and more mocking laughter. Tears welled up again and Alison wanted to run, but the thought of Peter held her there. Peter. Head in his hands, his face blank, stony, unreadable.

‘Is Toddy here?’ she asked. ‘Is he here?’ Her voice was rising; she was having to shout now to be heard above the racket. One or two of the men, the older ones, saw her distress and tried to shush the rabble, but then the nightmare shifted into darker territory, because Martin Baxter was striding towards Alison, centre stage, seizing his moment of triumph. He’d waited for this, and you could see what he was thinking, just from that twisted sneer: The little bitch has it coming. I’ll bring her down off her fucking high horse. Alison scanned the collection of men for Toddy, but there was no sign of him, and Martin was looming at her now, shoving something at her. She couldn’t shift her limbs: her legs wouldn’t move to run; her arms wouldn’t move to protect herself. He thrust it at her, this object in his hand. He held it in her face. It was a photograph of a man on his knees in front of another. Alison registered this image, only briefly; then she defied Martin and closed her eyes.

‘Yeah,’ Martin said, ‘go on, shut your eyes, you stuck-up cow, but it makes no difference. Your filthy pervert brother’s finished.’

Now Alison opened her eyes, moved as close to him as she could bear, and spat in his face. The group around them was large now; they cheered at Alison’s direct hit, and she looked around at them, at their pathetic animation, their flushed excitement, and she despised them all. Martin took a swing at her, but she dodged his fist, made him look a fool.

‘Bitch,’ Martin said, wiping his face on his sleeve. ‘Little bitch.’

Alison snatched at the photograph, grabbed it from his hand, but he just laughed and said, ‘Dunt worry, you can keep it. They’ve all seen ’em anyway, seen what those fucking queers do on a Sat’day night.’