Every Monday or Friday, the woman sat in a child’s chair and struggled for a position that lent her some dignity. She could offer nothing concrete – that his behaviour would improve or that she would insist it improve. Her presence there only promised she would be at the next meeting and the meeting after that, all the way to graduation and beyond. And although it made both her and the teacher uneasy in a way they couldn’t articulate, she had to come in to prove her worth, her plans to stay.

He had been caught stealing from another boy’s pockets.

‘Maybe he was just curious about what was in the pockets. Curious,’ she repeated, hopefully.

The teacher gave her a stern look, violently shrinking, and the woman wondered who educated these people, schooled them in disapproval. ‘That wasn’t it,’ the teacher said. She was from London and had a soundless way of communicating disappointment. Their relationship never moved beyond professional; they never hinted at their personal lives, as if any friendliness might cause embarrassment the next time they saw each other, and there would be a next time.

The woman pulled a face that was also learned, perfected from years of bad relationships – let down but doubtful of change.

‘I will speak to him,’ she said, finally.

On the Metro, hurtling home through black tunnels, he sat beside her, always content in her company. He kept up a steady chatter about school as if constant talk could distract from his misdemeanour. She was familiar with this trick. If she ever tried to grab his hand, he shook her off. He never allowed her to touch him.

When she watched the other mothers exit through the school gates – in their discreet, mother uniforms; this city believed in uniforms – pushing their sons’ hair back from their eyes, casually shepherding them, her mind raced with thoughts of self-improvement. She should try to be gentler, less agitated, learn to make small talk in another language, or even her own language. Become someone a boy might want to touch. It seemed as if her whole life, from the age of thirteen onwards, had been geared towards that rotten desire and now the world had come up with a genius way of punishing her.

She tried to tempt him into a pastry shop, bribe him into confessing with sugar. It was gloomy. It was also possibly criminal.

‘No, thanks,’ he said, massaging his abdomen, his body so tiny that it was hard to believe that it contained the correct amount of organs. ‘Sports.’

‘Sports.’

‘Sports,’ he repeated and raced ahead of her.