But this lot had looked bored and none of the faculty had even turned up. The applause was tepid, just a few desultory questions. For the first time in a long while, he had felt the cloak of inferiority wrap itself around him. Once attached, it was hard to shake off. When the board had finally convened to interview him he could tell that they were just going through the motions, and when the professor had started texting during one of Sam’s answers, he had stopped mid-sentence, picked up his bag and walked out. On the bus to the station, still fuming, it had occurred to him that now he knew what it felt like, the incoherent rage some of the thugs he’d studied talked about.

The former church hall stank like the refugee camp they had stayed in when they’d first arrived in England, of sweat, boiled veg and unflushed toilets. Inside was a sea of camp beds, mostly mothers with small children. He approached a huddle of women in scarves, in the midst of which, holding forth, in a tacky fake-fur coat and ankle boots, was his mother.

‘Hello, Mum.’

They stopped talking and gazed up at him. He smiled back. He knew what they were thinking. Here comes Sammy the doctorate. Too bad his mother couldn’t share in the admiration.

‘Ah, good,’ she said, as if he had just come back from the shops.

Eighteen years ago, just a few months after they had settled in Doncaster, his father had stepped out for a pint of milk and never come back. Recently Sam had done some digging and found out that he had gone back to Bosnia and started another family.

She got up, took his hands and kissed him purposefully on both cheeks. He noticed that, despite the privations of the last few days, her makeup was still being liberally applied. Wherever she was, she always had a mirror.

‘So wonderful of you to spare the time to come all this way.’

He looked at the crowd. Not exactly starved of attention. Was this new-found appreciation of him mainly for their benefit? ‘So, what happened?’

She smacked her forehead as if dispatching a mosquito. ‘Ugh! They came down the street, smashing everything. Oh, it was terrible, terrible! Jimmy’s away so I was all on my own.’

‘Did they hurt you?’

‘Oh, no. I’d put the shutters down. But they stood there and banged and banged. And the dreadful things they shouted. It was just like Bosnia.’

‘Well, I don’t think there’ve been any massacres.’ It was an ill-chosen remark but he couldn’t help himself. She was adept at exaggeration.

‘After they’d gone the police came, asking if I was okay. I told them how traumatized I was alone so they said I’d better come here. Can you take me to the airport?’

Fuck – had she gone senile?

‘You don’t want to go home?’