Then the arena’s wrought-iron gates were flung open and the vehicle drove in. As they approached the centre of the arena, the driver pressed a button. The platform on which they were standing rose up into the air, Cocomo’s tail dangling beneath. Tancredi began to tap his nose with his free hand. Soon they were parallel with the seated, silent crowd: a beautiful bride beside a groom in a shrunken dinner jacket who was doing something to his nose.

‘Today Tancredi and Cocomo are to break the vows they made before God,’ the voice announced. ‘We’re here to remind them to be more thoughtful in the future.’

The vehicle began a circuit of the arena. The platform lurched perilously, oscillating from side to side. Tancredi’s hand tightened in Cocomo’s. She felt the tension and looked at him.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ she asked, observing his strange ritual.

Tancredi was too ashamed to answer. Cocomo drew herself up to her full height, held her head up and surveyed the surrounding crowd. She knew she would need all her powers of courage and defiance. She wouldn’t succumb like the condemned man who begs forgiveness of his audience. She’d spit at them and laugh.

As the vehicle continued its circuit the crowd got to its feet, all eyes on the couple. Presently the voice announced, ‘Point!’ Thousands of arms stretched out in silent accusation. ‘Laugh!’ The crowd convulsed with uncontrollable laughter; not giggles but bellyaching shouts, the guffawing of the madhouse. The laughter rose in pitch and hysteria. Although he hadn’t broken any vows, Tancredi felt a terrible shame.

Cocomo stabbed her finger at the crowd. ‘Yes you, idiot!’ she shouted. ‘And you, moron! And you, pathetic!’

The vehicle was driven back to the centre of the arena; the voice sang out again. ‘Putrefaction gun!’

A roar of excitement rose from the frantic crowd. Cocomo shouted to Tancredi above the noise: ‘Stop doing that thing with your nose. Close your mouth. Shut your eyes.’

The crowd cheered as a salvo of blood and offal arced through the air towards the divorcees.

‘Excremortar!’ the voice announced to further hoots of enthusiasm.

To his horror, Tancredi couldn’t follow Cocomo’s advice in time, his finger glued to its olfactory perch. His mouth filled with filth, he gasped for air, but his throat was blocked. He gagged, lent over the platform and was violently sick. This induced a great cheer, which reverberated around the arena like a thunderclap. There followed a chorus of catcalls and boos.

‘Who’s a messy boy, then?’ jeered the voice through the stadium speakers.

The crowd roared the answer.

‘Who’s a dirty girl who can’t keep her wedding dress clean?’

‘She is! Her!’ screamed the crowd pointing to Cocomo on the platform.

At this point, the voice made an error.

‘Who’s a bad example to their little boy and doggie?’

The crowd failed to understand the reference and continued to scream insults.

‘Stand up,’ hissed Cocomo, grabbing Tancredi. Her hand acted like a lightning rod, channelling power to him. He steadied himself on the platform.